


Lasting Impressions

by C_AND_B



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_AND_B/pseuds/C_AND_B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a parent teacher (sibling) conference, except no, it actually starts with Lexa walking into a painting because an insanely pretty woman catches her eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’re almost entirely sure that Aden conveniently _forgot_ to tell your parents about this until the day before just so you’d have to take him. You’re also sure that it has nothing to do with his behaviour or academic record. He’s basically what you were when you were at school - a smart deviant, which is to say that he can quite happily follow rules or he can quite happily break them but he’ll never get caught.

You’re oddly proud that you created a mini me but it doesn’t explain your current predicament. You know that he’s getting good grades and that his teachers constantly gush about him to your parents when they come to these things but he all but lied to them. He all but lied to your parents and now you’re taking him to his student teacher conference.

You know something is up.

You’re not blind to the smirk that’s been lingering on his lips for the entire drive over. You’re acutely aware of the nervously excited bounce of his knee that won’t cease. You’re also sure that whatever he and Anya were whispering about before you left the house wasn’t going to be good for you, especially when her excuse for not taking him was that she had to do some filing (you’ve met her assistant; you know that Anya does exactly none of her own filing).

“You’re jumpy.” Your words are met with an abrupt jolt of his body and you chuckle lightly at the reaction, despite the fact that it only serves to heighten your suspicion of what’s going on. Aden is never jumpy. Years and years of surprise tickle attacks had made him impervious to a jump scare and yet here he was, more uncomfortable than the time you watched him get given the sex talk by your dad – which was saying a lot since, you too, had experienced that particular chat and could honestly say it was like all of your court cases combined with a dash of teen cringe.

“No I’m not.” He argues.

“You literally just jumped.” You mention simply and watch as he crosses his arms defensively. You could have sworn he was better at lying than this.

“I’m just excited for you to give Mr Blake the ‘ _commander stare’_.” You’re going to kill Anya, or maybe send her one of those glittergram things and have her constantly reminded of the consequences of her actions.

“OK, firstly, stop believing every story Anya tells you and secondly, if said story were to be true, why exactly would I be doing it?” You question with raised brow.

“I just have a feeling.” He responds cryptically.

“A feeling? Of course, very specific and accurate. I guess it’s definitely happening then.” He shoves your arm and you remove one hand from the wheel to push him back alongside your glare before you turn your attention back to the road. It’s the glare that stops him from retaliating and you know you’re not helping to stop the _Commander_ idea from festering in his head. You can’t believe Anya was bringing that up even after all these years. You also can’t believe that you’d been keeping her secrets from Aden when the two of them were obviously having a grand old time spilling yours.

“You’re a dork.” He mumbles and you concede with a small nod.

“And you’re hiding something. Did you invite me so I’d glare at him, because we both know I learnt everything I know from mom?” If you were scary, your mother was terrifying. Grown men have been known to physically cower in front of her from just so much as a look (you were actually getting quite good at it yourself but even you wouldn’t dare question her).

“That’s not why I invited you.”

“So you did purposely not tell them until it was too late?” He shuffles uneasily before excitedly pointing his finger forward and avoiding the question all together.

“Oh look, we’re here.” He calls, and you sigh as you pull into the car park, resigning yourself to never knowing why the hell he wanted this so bad or why the hell he wouldn’t even admit that he had ulterior motives.

“You got lucky this time but blood must have blood.” The smirk on his face can mean nothing good. You know that smirk. You’ve felt it spread across your own lips in the moment that you realise you have someone cornered, the moment you realise you’ve discovered a weak spot and the exact way to exploit it.

“I thought you changed it to blood must not have blood after you accidentally broke Anya’s nose and she told-“ Screw the glitter, you are going to shoot your sister. You are finally going to put the gun your dad bought you for safety reasons and put a bullet in her – nothing fatal, maybe just a kneecap or something.

“I thought as the middle child I was supposed to be forgotten, not tormented for my past mistakes.” You don’t know how you became the butt of all the jokes. It used to be evenly spread. Aden would get mocked for his crush on the girl in his basketball team, Anya for the time she got caught having sex by your parents, and you for your seeming inability to talk to a pretty girl. Currently said inability was everyone’s favourite thing to mock, even your dad had joined in on it at your family dinner on Sunday.

You couldn’t catch a break.

“We torment you for current mistakes too, like last week when you saw that girl at the art gallery and got so mesmerised that you walked straight into a painting and were forced to buy it.” You still can’t believe you did that. You still can’t believe that said girl watched the whole thing happen either. Although you still maintain that she probably got it a lot considering how insanely beautiful she was. It wasn’t really your fault that she melted your brain and you forgot that your legs hadn’t stopped moving. It also wasn’t your fault that the building was built in such a way that there was a wall in the way of your path.

Your actions were completely reasonable (read: utterly idiotic).

“It’s a nice painting.” Not a lie.

“It cost four thousand dollars.”Also not a lie.

“Back to you and your secrets.” You try and he shakes his head triumphantly as he pushes his door open and begins to climb out. You really wish you’d decided to take your jeep instead so you could have at least mocked him for the awkward way he always tumbles out of it.

“Sorry, Lex but we’ll be late unless we go in now.” He’s such a smug little shit.

“Of course, sweetie.” You say sweetly as you step out alongside him and revel in the way he cringes at the pet name.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Dare what, pumpkin?” He flinches and you can’t stop the laugh that echoes from your mouth. It’s a technique that has never failed you and you’re glad that he still has the ability to feel embarrassment because it seems to be the only way to get him to back down half the time. Truthfully it’s a little sad that you have to resort to such tactics to beat a fourteen year old but you’ll do whatever’s necessary to win an argument, or at least, end it on equal footing.

“Truce?” He questions, palm outstretched as the two of you linger in the entrance.

“Truce.” You shake his hand firmly once and push him through the doorway. You really hope you’re being paranoid about this whole thing. You really hope he just failed a test and is too afraid to admit it to your parents. You really hope this isn’t going to end up with you being awkward and regretting ever being conceived.

* * *

 

You’re so close.

You’re so close to being in the clear.

You were yet to glare at any teachers, though you were honestly quite close to giving into the need to glare at Mr Blake. Who are you kidding? You definitely glared at him. The only reason you stopped glaring at him was because Aden had started to laugh and you realised that you should maybe stop (not because it was the right thing to do but because you didn’t want to prove him any more right).

You silently accepted the glare some judgemental mother sent your way as she assumed Aden was your child, simply mentioning you were his sister as you slipped into your appointment and watching her pale considerably. You even accepted her apology without question when it sprang out of her mouth the second you passed her in the doorway.

You didn’t punch the man who leered at you for a good five minutes, nor did you react to the sexual comment he mumbled your way despite his child standing directly at his side. That was probably your most impressive feat seeing as you spent a solid ten minutes after the fact imagining all the creative ways you could maul him in a school without getting in trouble.

For God sake, you didn’t even mock Aden when his friend Tris sprinted to give him hug and he blushed harder than he ever had. You’ve been the picture of civility and you deserve to make it through this whole thing without something weird happening. Honestly, you think you deserve a medal but you’d settle for escaping this place and watching Aden’s smirk disappear because his secret plan failed.

One more teacher and you were free.

One more teacher and whatever scheme Aden had concocted was foiled.

One more teacher and -

Shit.

“Hey, Miss Griffin.” _No. No, no no. Nope. No._ You want to glare at Aden. You really want to glare at him but you also really don’t want this woman to recognise that this is weird for you and thus realise you’re the one she watched walk into a painting. Miss Griffin is the woman who distracted you so much that you walked into a four thousand dollar painting and she’s even prettier in the light of day.

You can’t survive this. Calm collected Lexa jumps ship the moment blue eyes catch your own and awkward fumbling Lexa takes her spot quickly despite meaning imminent doom. You repeat - you can’t survive this.

You really hate Aden right now.

And Anya. She undoubtedly had a hand in this and you just know that she’s sitting at home right now laughing about this whole situation, or calling up Lincoln so that the two of them could laugh about the situation together.

You should never have agreed to come to this stupid parent teacher thing. She’s too pretty. This woman is far too pretty and her smile is far too mesmerising, and her eyes too bright, and her body too insane. It’s too much and you’re staring. You know you’re staring.

“Hey Aden,” she says with a grin before turning to you with her hand outstretched and adding, “and I’m fairly sure you can’t be Mrs. Woods?” At least someone knew how to ask before simply assuming you had a kid aged fifteen. You somehow manage to actually clasp her palm with yours and shake. You’re less successful at letting go but you note vaguely that she too has made little to no effort to extract her hand from your grip. Honestly it’s just ended up being the two of you holding hands by the time you finally manage to speak.

“It’s just Miss but you can call me Lexa.” You’ve never been more thankful that your brain was attached to your mouth. You’ve never been more thankful that your social filter decided to work because the words _you can call me whatever you like_ were far too close to slipping from your lips.

“Well then I suppose you may call me Clarke.”

“Clarke.” You repeat jolting as her hand squeezes yours in a curiously abrupt movement that draws your attention back to the fact that the two of you are simply staring at one another. You probably shouldn’t just be standing there, holding your brother’s teacher’s hand, trying to remember what breathing felt like before the weight of her beauty began crushing your lungs. Thank God there were no expensive paintings for you to walk into this time, only a few chairs and tables.

“I’m sorry, have we met before?” You try to say no. You are one second away from saying no and being in the clear. You are one second away from not having to relive the embarrassment of that night. You are one second away from maintaining the capacity to forgive your siblings for this whole ordeal.

“N-“

“Lexa came with me to your art show the other day. She has your painting in her office.” Why did they insist on doing these things to you? You were a good person. You held Anya’s hair back while she vomited just last week. You bought Aden that video game that your dad refused to go out and get and pretended it was yours. You were delightful. They certainly were not.

“Oh, _Hiraeth_ right?” You nod dumbly because there’s a subtle new curve to her smile that tells you that she definitely remembers you, that she definitely remembers you ogling her so hard you almost crashed through a wall. “You have good taste.” She adds and you’ll accept that statement too because it has been a beautiful piece, the iridescent galaxy existing in the monochromatic iris of a woman. You’re still in awe of it even now, how much it looked like a photograph, how much it made you feel. You’re glad that, if you had to walk into a painting, it was that one.

“You have talented fingers.” You comment and blanch when she blushes because you just said that. _You honestly just said that._ She almost looks as though she’s going to add something before Aden very loudly falls into a chair opposite her desk and you remember the reason you’re actually here. Clarke startles too and you chuckle a little as she quickly flitters around her desk and sits down the face of professionalism.

“Right, so about Aden...”

* * *

 

You can’t seem to hear the end of it.

The moment you stepped out of that meeting your phone pinged with a message from Anya which simply read _“Talented fingers, huh?”_ and you knew you were screwed. You knew there was no ignoring the whole situation when Lincoln had called and those were his exact first words too. You hadn’t meant to say it. You definitely hadn’t meant to say it in front of Aden.

You’re so awkward.

To make matters worse, now that you’d crossed paths once the universe seemed to be refusing to let you hide away from her. Or maybe it’s not so much the universe. Maybe it’s just Aden who keeps asking you to schooling events and the fact that his pout, alongside your mother’s reproachful gaze when you almost say no, is enough to coerce you into attending.

So, here you are, watching yet another soccer game and almost forgetting that you saw a flash of blonde and blue earlier that made your heart race. The key word being almost. You almost forgot how much your palms were sweating. You almost forgot the race in your heart at the prospect of seeing her. You almost forgot the nervous bounce of your leg. You almost convinced yourself that she wouldn’t see you and you couldn’t make it any more awkward.

Almost.

And then she sat beside you.

“Lexa, hi.” She remembered your name. She actually remembered your name and she was choosing to greet you over all other parents she must have met, over all other people she must have known at this match seeing as it was her school. You should probably be talking. You should, in fact, definitely be talking instead of just staring at her with comically wide eyes because a pretty girl remembered your name. It’s not like it’s the first time it’s happened. It’s just the first time you’ve actually cared enough about it to get flustered.

You can’t quite seem to collect yourself around her.

You find you oddly like feeling scattered.

“Clarke.” You greet softly and relax into the smile she sends your way. You’re not sure why the same smile that frazzled you so much that you walked into a painting now seemed to bring you such serenity but it does (probably because it’s a welcome distraction from remembering all the crap you’re going to have to suffer through later because she smiled at you - not that it isn’t worth it. It’s definitely worth it).

“Enjoying the game?” She asks softly and you allow yourself to bask in the throaty husk of her tone for a moment before replying.

“I enjoyed watching Aden get tackled just before half time.” You joke and she laughs despite the shove that she delivers to your shoulder. The sound makes your heart skip a beat. Why do you have to be so weak and gay?

“You can’t say that.” She admonishes.

“I’m pretty sure I already did.” You return quickly, matching the smile that slips onto her lips once again. You’re finding yourself rather infatuated with that smile. Truthfully, you’re finding yourself rather infatuated with everything about her. “Are you enjoying the game?” You question because you’re mostly infatuated with the way her tongue wraps its way around words and the gravelly quality to her sounds that makes your fingers twitch. Listening to Clarke talk is addictive and you can think of plenty of worse things to be addicted to.

“Honestly I have little to no idea what’s going on.” She admits sheepishly to your smirk. “I’m just here because I used to be a nurse and the usual first aider couldn’t make it.” A nurse? She used to be a nurse. You almost groan because you didn’t think she could be any more attractive and yet, here she was, dropping bombshells like she was a medical professional and, whilst you’d never put much stock into the whole uniform thing, the visual of Clarke in scrubs is oddly hot. You can feel your face heating up at the thought of Clarke in one of those more... _revealing_ nurse’s outfits.

When did you become such a perv?

“So you’re beautiful, smart and creative? Any more secret talents to make me feel inadequate?” She chuckles but you can’t help but focus on the nervous way she ducks her head into her jacket, like she’s attempting to hide the crimson coating her cheeks. She looks adorable. It’s different to the confident smirks you’ve been privy too so far, and yet, it does nothing to cease the stuttering beat in your chest when you look at her.

You’re so stupidly smitten.

“I could ask the same of you Miss Alexandria Woods, early graduate of Harvard Law and youngest ever partner at Trikru Law, who-“ You cut in with a small laugh.

“I see you put Google to its full use.” You quip and she smiles softly.

“It’s not every day a girl walks into one of your paintings because she looked too busy trying to figure out if, you too, were a piece of art.” You know she’s making a joke but you can’t help but note how spot on she really is. You also can’t help but note how incredibly mortifying it is that she was indefinitely aware of the turn of events instead of just assuming you were a klutz.

You generally had quite good control over your attraction - years of ignoring people’s advances and focusing on work will do that to you – but Clarke. Clarke you couldn’t seem to shake from your head, or stop your eyes from straying to, or stop your legs from moving on their own accord around.

She is ineffably bewitching.

“I had kind of assumed we had an unspoken agreement that we wouldn’t bring that up. Those four thousand dollars were definitely supposed to include your silence.” You remark with a smirk and delight in the laugh she offers in response.

You should really be watching the game.

You should really be paying attention to every move Aden makes because he’s going to ask you about it afterwards and you’re not going to be able to tell him anything other than Clarke’s eyes are bluer than the Circassian sea and that her laughter makes you inexplicably nervous and excited all at once. All you’ll be able to tell him is that you have some stupid schoolgirl crush on his art teacher and it’s completely affecting your brain.

“The figure on the check wasn’t exactly the one that caught my eye.” Does that mean what you think it means? Is she actually flirting with you or are you just reading into a friendly interaction between two women because one woman is ludicrously hot and funny (Clarke) and the other (you) is ludicrously gay? “Listen Lexa, I was thinking that maybe we could-“

“Clarke get down here! And bring your med kit!” You snap your gaze to the field quickly, praying that Aden isn’t the reason the coach is calling for help. You breathe a sigh of relief when you catch sight of him helping a limping boy to the sidelines with a small sullen wave when he catches your eye. Even from your seat you can see the twitch in his lip that tells you he would be openly mocking you right now had the situation not called for a more serious hand.

You really needed to get your shit together.

But what was Clarke going to say?

* * *

 

“Miss Griffin asked about you today.” He mentions it casually. Aden throws the comment towards you as easily as the baseball that slaps against your mitt, but you know that he knows how it makes your heart race. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You’ve already suffered enough of Anya’s constant naughty nurse jokes this week since Aden let the details of his game slip at your family dinner (obviously when you say slip, you mean when he excitedly told Anya everything because they were both terrible human beings).

“Oh yeah?” You try for nonchalant as you fling the ball in his direction.

“Yeah, she was trying to be casual about it, kinda like you are now.” You open your mouth to protest but he powers on as though he hasn’t just called you out. You really wish he was still young enough to be completely embarrassed by these kinds of affairs. You really wish he was still young enough that he hid behind your leg when Tris smiled at him from across the soccer pitch. “But I overheard her telling Miss Reyes that you were really pretty.”

“She said that?” You ask far too excitedly before you can stop yourself.

“Actually her exact words were _she’s a ten Raven, an honest to God ten. I feel like Icarus getting too close to the sun or like she’s that dude with the fucking lute thing that was basically the original boy band heartthrob._ Then she said you were really pretty.”

“Okay, that impression was terrible and also, for your sake, don’t swear in front of mom.” Frankly, you want to laugh at his ridiculous impersonation, you also kind of want to jump for joy a little bit because she was talking to her friends about you and making dorky Greek myth references.

So she was a beautiful dork and you were an awkward nerd.

Slightly less daunting.

_Slightly_.

“Don’t worry; I don’t have a death wish.” He promises.

“You would think you did with the amount of time you spend mocking me. Don’t think I’m above telling Tris you have a crush on her.” His eyes widen and you note the ball hits your mitt far harder than before.

“You wouldn’t.” He calls you out. Except he’s wrong, he’s so completely wrong. You may be a grown adult and a serious lawyer but you’re still his sister. Plus, if you go soft at his puppy dog eyes and chicken out you can always get Anya to go in for the kill.

“I think Tris might enjoy being told, let me just remember this correctly, _your velvety voice makes my heart race and stumble and trip over itself in the hopes of hearing it again._ ” He blushes as he groans into the leather of his baseball glove.

_“_ Now _that_ was a bad impression.” He murmurs and you’re maybe letting the power go to your head a little too much with your next words, but you’ve kept quiet about all this since Anya insisted the two of you read the book you’d found haphazardly stuffed under his pillow. You had said no at first but even you didn’t have the willpower to hold out from looking, especially as your sister buzzed excitedly beside you.

“You’re right; I’ll probably just give her your journal so she can read it herself. Oh, and about that dream you had where she-“ You remain firm as he shoves you harshly before extending his palm towards you.

“Stop. I’m officially calling for peace.” He states.

“What are you offering in return?” You return, keeping up his charade.

“I’ll stop asking about Miss Griffin.” That would be nice. Scratch that, it would be delightful to have a little peace instead of constant mockery because you can’t get a certain blonde out of your head. But you wouldn’t get peace, you would just get Anya stepping up to the plate and making twice as many jokes to make up for the lack of Aden.

Except, you overheard Anya on the phone earlier.

“How about a counter offer?” You find yourself saying and almost laugh at the ridiculous nature of the conversation you’re having with your brother before you watch his brow quirk curiously.

“I’m listening.” He says suspiciously.

“Anya has a new girlfriend...” You trail off with a devious smirk and delight in the excited bounce of his legs as he mulls over the idea of revenge.

“Oh I am _so_ in.”

* * *

 

You can’t believe you’re doing this.

You can’t believe you actually managed to talk yourself into doing this, or, you know, that you actually allowed Aden to talk you into talking yourself into it. It’s just that his constant hints that Clarke just so happened to have a free period at coincidentally the exact same time your meeting just up the road would finish had gotten under your skin.

And you’re maybe a little antsy about seeing her again. Mostly because you’d had no schooling events to attend as an excuse to see her recently and Aden keeps telling you about how she’s not so subtle in asking about you, which only makes you want to see her more because you can’t exactly ask your brother to detail how hot she looked that day.

You have no excuse to be here.

You have literally no legitimate reason you can give anyone for you roaming the halls trying to locate the art room other than you have some hormonal teenage crush on the woman you’re hoping to find in there. She was also completely the reason for how nervous you were feeling, the excuse for the sweat on your palms and the race of your heart.

You’re not entirely sure how you gather the courage to actually knock on her door, nor are you sure how your body actually manages to complete the act of stepping through the doorway and into her classroom but you do it. The strain in your chest and the uncertainty in your bones all seems worth it when realisation dawns upon her features and a smile spreads across her face.

“Alexandria Woods.” She greets and you find your own smile in the sound of her voice.

“Clarkandria Griffin.” You don’t know why you say it but you know your entirely too thankful that she actually laughs at the awkwardness spewing from your mouth because you can’t seem to keep your cool around her. You count your lucky stars that she doesn’t sit beside you in the courtroom because you’d never even get remotely close to winning a case with her blue orbs effectively burning into your skin.

“Is that what I think it is?” She questions with her gaze locked onto your hands. You’d actually completely forgot you were holding it until that moment, _it_ being the reddest apple you could manage to find at the farmers market. The one that you had been nervously polishing the whole way from your meeting because it was either going to look stupid or cute and you were most definitely aiming for the latter.

“I hear they’re like kryptonite to teachers.” You quip as you drop it to the table in front of her and take in a deep breath. “And I was hoping to weaken your defences long enough that I felt slightly less intimidated asking you on a date.”

“A date?” She repeats questioningly and you power through the pounding in your ears.

“Yeah, you know, me, you, a room preferably not filled with priceless paintings that I can accidentally walk into. Maybe some food.” You feel numb. So incredibly numb because her face is blank. Her face is so unhelpfully blank and thinking someone is pretty is entirely different to actually wanting to go out with them and what if you’ve read this wrong? What if you actually trusted Aden who was reading this wrong?

“I’m a little upset that you beat me to the punch.” You find her saying and then she’s grinning and her hand is slipping into your pocket and pulling your phone out. Your body is scarily still as you watch her fingers dart across the screen before handing the device back to you. You grin as her number stares back at you under the name _Clarkandria Griffin_.

“You can ask next time.” You find yourself saying.

“Already betting on a second date?” She smirks and it’s the very thing that gives you enough courage to softly paint a kiss upon her cheek before you begin walking backwards in your escape.

“I have faith.” You manage to declare before your back crashes into the closed door. You grimace at the muffled giggle she omits at the sight. You really need to work on not being awkward for more than a minute around her. “How many paintings would I have to buy for you to forget that just happened?” You ask far too sincerely, watching as she shakes her head with a widening grin.

“I don’t think you can afford my silence on this one.”

“Guess I’ll have to look into another strategy.” Maybe your voice was a little too sultry. Maybe you pulled your lip between your teeth a little too sensually. Maybe you let your heated gaze rest on her for a little too long. Whatever the reason for her being startled enough to tip out of her chair you were eternally grateful that this was affecting her as much as it was affecting you.

She groans from the floor but waves you off when you rush to help her stand, pushing herself onto her feet far more gracefully than the action that landed her on the floor in the first place.

“Maybe we could call it even?” She tries and you feign indecision.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not every day a beautiful woman falls off her chair because she was picturing you naked.” It was supposed to be a joke but the blush she directs at her feet tells you maybe you weren’t too far off the truth. That idea alone is enough to make a shiver run down your spine.

She stumbles for words and you half expect to hear her wave off the light-hearted accusation.

She doesn’t.

She merely shrugs and offers you a cheeky grin as she takes a bite from her apple.

“Make sure to call me sooner rather than later Lexa Woods, I’m always excited to know if my imagination comes close to the real thing.” You don’t know how you make it out of her classroom without stumbling over your feet. You don’t know how you make it back to your office without being hit by a car. You don’t know how you resist calling her until later that evening after calming yourself with one too many fingers of whisky.

You do know one thing though.

Clarke Griffin will be the death of you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello procrastination.

You’re running out of sweat.

You have to be legitimately running out of sweat. There’s no way that one person could be maintaining these sweat levels and not running out. You kind of need to run out. You would honestly debate believing in God if you somehow managed to stop sweating.

You blame Clarke. Clarke and her stupidly pretty face and body and personality. Clarke and the easy way in which she sends texts like _’looking forward to tonight’_ like you aren’t slowly falling apart at the concept of actually having to converse one on one with her and not blurt out a thousand embarrassing comments, or fall straight on your face, or somehow set something on fire.

The list of things you could potentially screw up seems endless so you’re nervously sweating. You hadn’t nervously sweated since you asked your high school crush to prom and even then it wasn’t this much.

You spent the whole drive over wiping your palms on your legs and hoping it would be the last time you’d need to. You spent the whole drive over telling yourself that it would all be fine but never actually managing to convince yourself of the fact.

Now...

Now you’re just standing at her apartment door, trying to convince yourself to actually take the plunge and knock. The flowers in your hand seem heavier than before. The shirt on your torso claustrophobic. You could just run away. You could go hide in your own home and pretend you weren’t a complete nervous wreck. Or you could just woman up and knock on the goddamn door because you wanted to go out with Clarke. You wanted to give her the flowers you spent far too long picking out and awkwardly hold her hand whilst pretending your palms weren’t slick with sweat.

You knock and she opens it quick enough that you know she’s been anxiously awaiting your arrival from the other side. Although that also means there’s entirely too high a chance that she knows you’ve been standing there for far longer than you should have been, nervously trying to figure out the best way to knock and what to say when she actually opened the door. Honestly, at this very moment you don’t know how you’ve survived in life so far. You have even less of a clue how one pretty girl has managed to make you such a wreck despite you having looked criminals in the eye without flinching.

“Lexa.” She greets with a smile.

“Clarke.” You reply with a nod before you really take her in, before you really lose yourself in how ridiculously beautiful she is (which is to say beautiful enough that you’re acutely aware of all the things her students must say about how behind her back, or maybe just that even in jeans and a shirt she somehow still seems to look like she stepped straight out of the pages of a magazine). “You look lovely.” You add and she grins.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You nod in place of words and she powers on. “This was the first outfit I picked out before I tried on eight other combinations and panicked, putting this exact thing back on again.” Laughter fills your lungs and your mouth and the nervous air lingering between the two of you. She grins at your reaction as you lift the flowers you brought into her vision with a guilty expression.

“Can I tell you a secret?” You mimic her as she does you with a singular nod. “I spent twenty minutes picking out this bouquet arrangement because none of them seemed quite right.”

“Then we’re both nervous wrecks - perfect.” She accepts the flowers easily as she slips her hand into yours. You’re not sure if her palms are sweating too or if she’s just kindly ignoring the fact that you’re housing your own body of water on your hand but you don’t question it, especially not when she squeezes your hand and makes your heart reply in kind.

* * *

It went well.

It was _going_ well.

Like _really_ well.

You managed not to choke on your food or spill your water all over yourself. You managed not to trip over tables or elbow anyone when you pulled out her chair. You managed to make her laugh. You managed to tell her things about yourself without tensing up and becoming a stoic bitch. You’re having a nice time and you’re pretty sure she is too.

You think.

You _hope_.

She at least didn’t seem like she was trying to run away from you. You were taking the fact that she returned from the bathroom instead of climbing out the window in the middle of dinner as a good sign. You were also pretty happy about the fact that the two of you had been wandering aimlessly for a good half an hour in the hopes of not having to separate yet. But now you were outside her apartment complex and you were becoming hyperaware of how dates were supposed to end, of how you really _really_ wanted this date to end.

“Well this is me.” She states as though you hadn’t nervously ascended the stairs only hours before to pick her up. As though you hadn’t inspected every brick of her building in lieu of actually entering because you needed time to psych yourself up. Even through your panic induced inner monologue you can’t help but note how beautiful she looks as she shifts her keys uneasily between her fingertips, the jingling sound of their presence mingling with the pound of your heart and the unsteady breaths lingering between the two of you, as you wonder if either of you will have the courage to take the next step.

“Can I walk you inside?” She cocks a brow and your face heats when you realise the connotations of that statement.”Not like into your actual apartment in, not that I wouldn’t because you’re... you know. I just. What I’m trying to say is you never know what unsavoury types are around.” You finish your words with a relieved sigh that loses its voice beneath her throaty chuckle.

“Now that you mention it Mrs Morgan from across the hall has always seemed sketchy to me.” You roll your eyes at the playful teasing as she grabs your hand and tugs you inside the building. Step one complete. “Come on then, Commander, walk me to my door.” You harshly flick your gaze to her as she wordlessly steps into the elevator and presses the button to her floor, all the while keeping her face the picture of innocence.

“Where did you hear that?” You question as she continues to refuse to meet your eyes.

“Aden slipped me an extra pudding cup at lunch to get me to say it.” Of course he did. Of course you couldn’t go one day without him pulling some crap to embarrass you in front of someone. Of course that someone had to be Clarke, the incredibly smart and pretty art teacher that you were indefinitely crushing on.

“What flavour?”

“Butterscotch.” You hum thoughtfully.

“I’ll allow it.” She laughs lowly before turning to you with a suspiciously salacious smile and pure unadulterated laughter in her eyes. You could get used to such a sight. It was the kind of sight that made you question whether you should be completely terrified or ridiculously turned on. It was the kind of sight that made you think the only correct answer to that question was an amalgamation of both.

“Is it a sexual thing?”

“God, no!” You choke out.

“We could make it a sexual thing.” She quips as the elevator dings open and you spill out coloured crimson to the soundtrack of her amusement.

“Or we could never say it again.” You counter even though you know it’s hopeless.

“As you wish, Commander.” You sigh. You know the name is going to follow you around for the rest of your existence because there was no way your siblings were letting it go and now there was Clarke, who actually made the name sound not so bad and made you forget how to breathe, let alone tell her off for using a stupid nickname.

“I’m never living it down am I?”

“I think I’m on a power high from all the pudding. You can always try to make me stop Thursday, when I take you out?” You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face at the segue, or the inevitable excitement in your eyes as you watch her anxiously lean against her apartment door, like she honestly believes you’ll say no.

There’s not a universe in existence in which you would say no to Clarke Griffin.

Rephrase. Not one that you _could_ say no in.

“Very smooth.” She mock curtsies and you fall a little bit more in that instant.

“Is that a yes?”

“Definitely.” You’re not sure what possesses you to hold out your hand. You’re not sure why the hell you freaked out and reached for a handshake. Probably because you’re an awkward nerd who walks into paintings and doorways when you’re too entranced by a pretty smile. You’re not sure how you got lucky enough to find a girl who actually clasped your hand in her own with a chuckle and decided to pretend your actions were entirely normal for the end of a date.

You’re even less sure about how you managed to get a girl like Clarke to tug you closer the moment you tried to shamefully walk away and kiss you. The answer to that was probably because even though a girl like Clarke tried to kiss you, she didn’t actually manage it. No. You didn’t feel soft lips or learn what flavour chapstick she’d been applying all night. Instead you learned that her head was rock hard, and your head was rock hard, and the two of them smashing into one another could only mean intense harm.

Your head hurts and she’s laughing.

Your head hurts and you’re laughing.

Your head hurts and her cheek is soft beneath your lips.

Your head hurts and the dazed smile on her face as you walk away makes your chest ache a little bit too.

* * *

 

You still haven’t kissed her.

You’re going to kiss her. It’s been two days since the awkward head bump and you still haven’t kissed her. Not that you’ve had the opportunity seeing as you haven’t seen her since then but you’re going to change that. You’re going to change that because you haven’t slept properly in two days and you’re going slightly insane thinking about what it would actually be like to kiss her. You just need to know. You think you may actually die a little bit if you don’t find out right now, hence why you’re storming through the halls of the school once again in search of her classroom, instead of waiting for your date tomorrow night.

You’ll probably regret this.

You’re hoping the moment you kiss her you’ll forget to regret this.

This probably shouldn’t be how you’re deciding to spend your lunch break. It probably should have consisted of you shoving a sandwich into your mouth and going over your latest case one last time before meeting with the client this afternoon, but you couldn’t stop thinking about her and you read the same page over and over again about eight times before you decided to do something about it.

All questions on whether you really should have driven across town to see her, whether she would actually have wanted you to drive across town to see her, are thrown out the window as you slip into her empty classroom and find her happily humming. Dressed in overalls and haphazard paint stains you don’t think you’d ever seen a woman more beautiful than Clarke. Although you were biased, so totally biased.

“Did you have a fight with a paintbrush?”

“It was badmouthing my mother, what else was a good daughter to do?” She jokes the moment she turns to greet you with a smile. She doesn’t shift from her spot, remaining firmly rooted across the room from you. The distance makes you both more and less nervous about this whole thing, probably because it gives you space to think, but you’re thoughts become less clear the longer you spend marvelling at how at home she looks betwixt the canvases and easels.

“How dare it.” You deadpan and bask in the small chuckle you receive in return.

“What brings you to my classroom today, Miss Woods?” You could tell her that you couldn’t wait. You could admit that you spilled coffee on yourself just this morning because you were too busy thinking about it. You could confess that you spent a good few hours berating yourself for going in for a handshake and then headbutting her that night.

You could say a lot of things.

You say nothing.

Mostly because you’re afraid you’ll panic and back out at the last moment. Also because your legs are already carrying you across the room to her and you don’t want to chance distracting yourself and tripping over. Truthfully you’re surprised when you actually manage to make it to her in one piece, she’s just as surprised as you are when you gently press your lips to hers a second later.

It’s a simple kiss at first. Nothing more than a timid meeting of your mouths but then her lips slip open and she catches your own in something firmer. Something purposeful. Her lips taste like apples, her tongue like coffee that’s more sugar than anything else and it’s your new favourite thing. The way her body crushes into yours like she’s trying to pitch a tent inside your bones is your new favourite thing. The sharp intake of breath that echoes from her mouth as you softly brush your nose against her own, before finding yourself once again lost in trembling lips that have no discernible owner, is your new favourite thing.

Kissing Clarke is, well, your new favourite thing.

You can’t explain the turn of events that has you lifting her onto a desk and settling snugly between her legs. Evidently it’s the same ones that have your lips on her neck, your teeth on her pulse point, her hands navigating your body indecisively like she’s still slightly aware of where you are right now but can’t quite bring herself to care.

You probably shouldn’t be doing this.

You _definitely_ shouldn’t be doing this.

You cannot stop yourself from doing this.

“That... was unexpected.” She mumbles against your mouth and you couldn’t agree more, ignoring the fact that it was you who initiated the whole thing. Partially because you hadn’t expected it to so easily become heated. Partially because you hadn’t expected her to respond to your vigour with equal vigour. Mostly because you still can’t seem to wrap your head around the whole Clarke wants you thing.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.” You’re not sure why you’re admitting it. You’ve been on exactly one date that ended with you smashing her head with your own but she makes you feel insane.

“I can’t stop thinking about you either, though I’m not entirely sure that kissing me like that is going to fix anything. I might even be a little more distracted thinking about that thing you do with your tongue.” You blush into the skin of her neck, revelling in the bob of her throat as she laughs at your reaction. You’re too enraptured by her to even think about clocking the sound of her door opening, or footsteps echoing into the classroom until a familiar voice snaps you out of your reverie.

“Miss Griffin I was just wondering about the- Oh sorry, I didn’t realise you were... Lexa?” No. Nope. Shit. No. The two of you split quickly and rush to opposite ends of the room like you haven’t already been caught, like the intruder couldn’t see the marks forming on Clarke’s throat where your teeth nipped and your tongue soothed.

“Hey, Tris.” Why did the universe hate you so much? Why couldn’t it have been literally any other student, notably one who didn’t know who you were and had no direct line to your family to tell them about what they saw? There was absolutely no way that this wasn’t going to be the talk of the family dinner. There was absolutely no way Anya was going to let her jokes go unsaid after you and Aden had spent the past week mocking her about her secret girlfriend. The best you could do now was escape. Escape and think of some plan to lessen the inevitable attack. “I should go back to work but I’ll see you tomorrow at seven?”

“Definitely.” You almost cross the room to kiss her again.

“Good.” She grins and you turn to the younger girl who’s avidly watching the exchange. “Punch Aden for me?”

“Will do. You have some paint on your face by the way.” You scrub harshly at your skin in an attempt to remove the markings Clarke left on you (and maybe a little to hide the blush crawling its way up your cheeks). “Oh and your ass.”

You were screwed.

No amount of planning was going to save you now.

* * *

 

“No paint stains today, Lex?” You roll your eyes with a sigh.

“No grease stains today, An?” You reply and are met with a laugh.

“Touché. Beer?” She holds a bottle towards you and you take it gratefully as you drop into the seat beside her to watch Aden try to score against your dad (otherwise known as Aden trying to hit your dad in the face with a football). You do the same thing most weeks - the drinking in the garden thing at least, the weekly family dinner thing is less weather dependent and more non negotiable. It’s your mother’s way of making sure you’re all doing something other than simply going to work and hiding in your respective apartments.

“How is the mystery mechanic?” You like the soft smile that spreads across her face. Actual happiness suits Anya just as much as sarcastic smirks do. As much as she annoys you sometimes (all the time) you kind of maybe love her a little bit.

“She’s good, though I imagine not as good as the handsy painter. Did you at least get an A for your efforts?” You take it back. You take it all back. You miss her misery.

“Sadly I didn’t actually have a chance to get my grade before Tris ruined the moment.” That’s a lie, well, a half lie. Tris did ruin the moment but you knew Clarke’s opinion of the kiss from the way she panted against your lips, the way she clawed at your body like she needed to somehow touch every inch of you at once, the way her blown pupils followed your every movement even as the student awkwardly looked on. You’d never been surer of anything than you were sure Clarke Griffin was as in to that kiss as you were.

“You always were a teacher’s pet.”

“Anya you were class president and valedictorian.” You point out quickly because it was essentially a Wood’s tradition at this point to achieve such titles. You were supposed to strive for greatness. You were supposed to be a leader. You mostly pushed for it because you wanted to prove to Anya that if she could do it, you could do it. You think Anya mainly pushed for it because she hated Ontari and if she had to win in order for that girl to lose then so be it.

“That’s not important.” She says with a dismissive hand flick and you can’t help but laugh.

“Of course not.”

“Are you free Saturday?” You turn your body away from the one on one war to give her your full attention at those words. Not because the words themselves hold much merit but because she sounds nervous. Anya sounds nervous. Anya hasn’t legitimately sounded nervous since she was the lead in her fifth grade production and had that huge crush on her drama teacher that she refused to admit (the denial really only made the teasing worse).

“That really depends on what I’m being free for because I seem to recall the last time I blindly agreed, I ended up having dinner with Titus so you could hit on his daughter.” She scoffs.

“A daughter that you ended up sleeping with so, you’re welcome.” You laugh at the annoyance in her tone but you maintain that it was really her own fault for bringing you along. You sleeping with that girl was simply retribution and it’s not like you had even tried. Apparently you’re just naturally charming (except when it comes to Clarke it seems). “Seriously though, I want you to meet the grease monkey or whatever. She’s bringing a friend too so there will be an extra buffer and stuff.”

“This whole nervous thing is very cute.” Drops of beer splash against your face as she flicks the bottle abruptly in your direction. “Stop being an ass Anya or I won’t come and meet your lover.”

“You’re the ass.”

“Just for that I’m going to bring baby pictures or tell her about that time when you were eleven and thought-“ She shoves you from your chair and the story dissipates to laughter and counter attacks.

This should be fun.

* * *

 

You’re running late.

You never run late. Generally you’re perpetually on time, being late could actually be the thing you hate above all else but you got sidetracked. So you blame Clarke. Clarke and her suggestive text messages and emoji pouts because she had to go out with her friend instead of sitting at home and binging Netflix. She was making the idea of you and her skipping out of your respective outings sound better by the text but you’d promised Anya. You’d promised Anya but the picture she’d sent you of her outfit very nearly made you cave, hence you were late. You were late because of Clarke and your over imaginative brain and apparently ever growing libido.

You don’t expect to catch sight of a familiar flash of blonde as you approach your sister. You don’t expect to hear such a familiar laugh sound as you close in on her table. You don’t expect to spot a table of familiar faces as you reach her side, and the fact that none of you had pieced this together seems a little ridiculous the more you think over it.

“Clarke?” A confused smile graces her lips the moment she turns.

“Lexa?” She seems to forego asking any of the obvious questions that need to be asked in favour of standing to wrap you up in her arms. Not that you’re complaining. You would never complain about hugging Clarke, even if your sister is making faces at you from behind her back. You’ll complain even less about the kiss she places on your cheek, the one that hits far too close to your lips for it not to have been purposely placed there.

“Wait, your Lexa is Clarke’s Lexa?” The way _Clarke’s Lexa_ sounds makes your heart flutter and you allow yourself a bashful smile in her direction as she pulls you down to sit beside her before you school your features.

“Apparently. I’m not sure if this should be awkward or hilarious.” Clarke comments with an uneasy shift and a glare towards the other girl - Raven if you remember correctly - who is silently laughing at Clarke’s embarrassment. You can’t help but wonder what had been said before your arrival that was causing such tension.

“Let’s go for the latter shall we. It’s nice to meet you properly Raven. Anya has told me literally nothing about you, which I suppose is the highest praise in her eyes.” She beams before ruffling Anya’s hair and pressing a loud kiss to her cheek. The glint in her eye tells you she did it only to gain a reaction from your sister but the eye roll she receives in return in nothing but endeared. You can’t help but smile.

“She does have a delightful way with words.” You both laugh.

“You can’t tag team ambush people.”

“Anya, you convinced Aden to do that very thing for two weeks to me just last month.” You point out and she huffs like you’re being an idiot.

“You legitimately walked into a painting Lexa and-“

“-siblings exist to stop you from being a weirdo.” You finish off with an eye roll of your own. To be fair, she does have a point, especially when you take into account your neighbours son. Cage Wallace was sleazy and creepy and definitely didn’t have an older sibling to tell him he was an asswipe and kick him down a few pegs. That dude was nestled so securely up his own ass he might as well have bought real estate.

“In that case, thank God I came into your life when I did Princess.” Raven jokes to Clarke and maybe you should question their relationship but you can’t help but find your mind only latches on to one piece of information that was spilled in that sentence.

“Princess?” Raven opens her mouth to speak, excitedly leaning forward across the table like she’s about to tell you the story of the century, and you can feel yourself leaning too in your haste to find it out before Clarke pulls you back so your securely in your seat and turns her gaze on Raven.

“Don’t.” She mutters lowly.

“I’m a little curious.” You admit jokily. You then proceed to almost choke to death when she runs her hand dangerously high up your thigh with a look that’s far too sultry to exist in the presence of your sister. Not that you’re going to stop her. You don’t even think you’d have the willpower to stop her if you wanted to. Except you don’t have to find out because she pointedly removes her hand in the next second with what you think is supposed to be a threatening glare (it’s entirely too cute to actually achieve any intimidation).

“You’ll stop being curious right now if you want me to follow up on that text at some point in the future.” She husks and you gulp as you watch Anya’s eye sparkle with unsaid jokes and the unspoken promise to mock you all about your _texts_ at a later date.

“You know, nicknames are kind of stupid.” You state and grin when Clarke kisses your cheek in return. There’s maybe a chance that you ask Raven to tell you all about it at some other time when Clarke is at the bar buying a round but she doesn’t need to know that.

* * *

 

It’s been a month.

A month filled with heated touches and gazes and kisses. A month filled with almost after almost after almost and you’re starting to go insane. There’s always something getting in the way – your work, her work, your family, her friends, that one time that you were so close to just going for it before your entire building had to be evacuated (you hate whatever frat boy douche occupies apartment 4E for that whole fiasco).

It’s been a month and you’re nervous. The more you think about it, the more you question it and wait, the more nervous you get. You haven’t been nervous about this particular activity since you lost your virginity in the first place but this is Clarke. This is Clarke and you think you’re about three kisses away from being completely in love with her and she’s important. So you’re nervous, far more than when you first saw her, or at that stupid meeting or even your first date - though you hadn’t known that was possible until this very moment, until she asked if she could walk you home and you recognised the particular tone of her voice.

You wonder if she can feel the shake in your palms as you hold her hand. You wonder if she notices your clumsy steps as you allow yourself to be led. You wonder if her pulse is racing like yours is. You both hope she does and wish she doesn’t. She grins when you reach your building and it’s bright and all encompassing and _everything_ but you can’t help but note the uneasy curve of her lip. The curve that tells you she’s maybe a little bit nervous too.

“Can I walk you inside because, as you well know, there are some unsavoury types around?” You chuckle at the question and the laughter that shines in her eyes.

“I suppose you’d better.” The reply is instinctual as you tug her inside your building with a gentle wave to the security guard and urgent legs that propel you towards the elevator.

You don’t touch. Not yet. You stand firm at opposite sides of the metal box like you’re both afraid of what havoc temptation may wreak if you step even an inch closer. You do watch though. You watch the shallow breaths that swim in her lungs. You watch the hungry shift of her eyes over your body (you’re silently thankful that you let Anya talk you into wearing a dress). You watch pearly teeth sink into plump lips like she’s willing herself not to speak, not to ruin the heavy silence that sits between you, building between you, as you inspect one another.

You watch her watch you and wonder what she sees. Does she see the violent thrumming of your blood rushing through your neck? Does she see the unconscious shift of your thighs as you very consciously think of what’s to come? Does she see the blackness of your pupils consuming the green that once was?

Does she see how much you want her?

It remains a silent staring contest until the moment you press the door shut. The click of your door seems to rev her into action as she slams your back against the wood and urgently presses her lips to yours.

“Eager.” You joke breathlessly as her mouth latches onto your neck, her hands tugging your hips roughly into her own. You feel like you’re on fire. You feel like she’s a wildfire and you’re being consumed by her flames. Every inch of your body feels like it’s being scorched by her hands and her lips and her skin. Every inch of your body is begging for that heat.

You need to be in fewer clothes.

You need _her_ to be in fewer clothes.

Stepping back abruptly you fully take in the sight of her dishevelled hair and quickly bruising lips. You revel in the panting of her chest and the way her eyes are clutched so tight like she’s almost afraid that when she opens them you won’t be there. It makes you smile. It makes you take a second to evaluate and calm yourself before you gently strip her of her dress, reaching around her back to rid her of her bra.

There are very few things in life that you could claim made you speechless, but in that moment you knew Clarke in her entirety would always be one of them. Hesitation is what spurs her into action. The look of pure adoration in your eyes is what has her levelling the playing field and tugging your dress from your body. Her hands run up your stomach, following her gaze with slow caresses until she reaches your chest and her eyes snap to yours curiously.

“I don’t think your heart is supposed to beat that fast.” You shrug.

“You have tremendous boobs.” She laughs loudly and you think it should shatter the moment. You think it should probably break the tension and stop your mind from running through thousands of different scenarios that all result in her writhing beneath you but it doesn’t. Her laugh only makes you ache for it more.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah and I’m nervous.”

“Me too.” She admits as she places your hand on her own chest. Her heart hammers against your fingertips. It’s so steadily unsteady that you almost wonder if hers and yours are following the same screwed up rhythm. “We can be nervous together.” She adds before she kisses you again.

That’s the kiss.

That’s the kiss that makes you realise you’re undeniably and irrevocably in love with Clarke Griffin.


	3. Chapter 3

“That was...” You trail off because you don’t know what to say. You hadn’t known what to say last night other than mumbled profanities and reverent repetitions of her name, but then again, she didn’t seem to know what else to say either as she panted illegible syllables and moaned nonsensical sentences. So the fact that you don’t know what to say this morning as your lungs clutch vainly at air and your brain scrambles to keep your thoughts in order is no surprise.

You don’t mind though.

You’d gladly never form a proper sentence again as long as you get to continue feeling the soft press of Clarke’s bare skin against your own.

“I agree.” She mumbles as though she’s just gone through the exact same thought process as you, as though she too can’t think of anything better than lying happy and spent by your side. Your nerves had dissipated somewhere between the first and second time she called your name like a believer would call God’s name in prayer. Her nerves seemed to dissipate the moment you were naked and writhing beneath her while she took a moment to just grin at you from above.

It was both charmingly attractive and incredibly frustrating.

Frustratingly charming you suppose.

“I’m glad.” You comment and she chuckles, shifting onto her side to look at you. You indulge her with a goofy grin as you turn you head to catch her gaze.

“Another round?” Her fingertips run along your stomach teasingly, temptingly, curiously, like there’s actually a chance that you’re not going to emphatically nod your head or accidently shout ‘ _hell yeah’_ before kissing her with everything you have. You’re definitely going to do that. You can’t imagine saying no at any near point in the future because you can already feel yourself getting addicted to her kisses and her touches and her entire being.

“Definitely.” She grins against your lips and you almost lose yourself in feathered touches and heated lip locks until near silent footfalls, and a never silent voice, reach your ears and you find yourself panicking instead.

“Alexandria!” One moment. All you want is one singular moment in which nothing awkward happens to you. One moment to kiss Clarke that isn’t interrupted by someone or something and yes, yes you’re being selfish because the two of you had been hiding between the sheets for ten or so hours, but it wasn’t enough.

You don’t think you’ll ever have enough.

You really do need it to be enough for now though.

“Who's that?” She questions as you hastily throw yourself from the bed and grab the first clothes you can find from your chest of drawers. You make the mistake of looking back at her once your shirt is securely over your head and it’s a terrible decision. It’s a terrible, _terrible_ decision to allow yourself a glance at Clarke in all her post coital glory - all dishevelled hair and sheets pooling at her waist revealing the red markings you’d left on alabaster skin like a reminder.

“My mother.” She jumps up even faster than you had and hastily attempts to find her dress. You know she won’t. You know she won’t find it because it’s haphazardly draped somewhere in your living room. The very same room that your mother is probably standing in right now, analysing the situation and quickly coming to the correct solution.

Why did this keep happening to you?

What did you do in a past life to deserve all this?

“Shit.” You couldn’t agree more. You lob an extra t-shirt and sweats her way, watching as she quickly puts them on before running her fingers nervously through her hair in an attempt to make them look presentable. “Will she know? She’s gonna know isn’t she? The first thing she’s gonna know about me is that I had sex with her daughter? What if-“

“Clarke,” you mumble softly and she cuts off abruptly. “Stop panicking or she’ll sense your fear.” You joke. Well, you half joke. She probably will sense her fear. She’ll also definitely know you had sex but you weren’t going to say that aloud. Your mother wouldn’t outright say it and you wouldn’t outright say it and you would all pretend that this situation didn’t really happen until you were inevitably mocked about it by Anya on Sunday because there was no way she wouldn’t find out about this.

“Okay.” You pull her into your arms and press a lingering kiss to her lips. You can’t help but attempt to memorise the way she happily sighs into your mouth like she’s finally found the Holy Grail after years and years of searching.

“You can just hide in here if you’re uncomfortable and I’ll send her away and we’ll never talk of this again.” Your bedroom door opens and your mother slips through. “Or not,” you tag on the end and feel like Clarke wants to laugh. You feel like Clarke _should_ be laughing because she usually does in these awkward situations but then you remember it’s your mother. This is your mother, who Clarke has never met before, and is now meeting in borrowed clothes and last night’s sweat.

“I apologise for intruding, you weren’t replying and I didn’t realise you had _company_.” Your mom says the word with a lilt that you know is housing laughter, but that’s because you know she’s nowhere near as stoic as she pretends to be, because you know in reality she’s warm and loving and kind but she never displays that to outsiders (and with Clarke being an outsider in this situation you know she reads into the tone as something far different than it’s intended to be).

“I’m Clarke; it’s nice to meet you.” She speaks quickly and shoves her hand at your mother in an awkwardly adorable manner. You can’t help but grin at her. You notice your mother is just managing to hold back a smile as she accepts the hand and firmly shakes it.

“Likewise, Clarke.” Silence. Incredibly awkward ‘ _I know you know we had sex’_ silence.

“Was there a reason for your visit or did you just want to check I wasn’t wasting away in front of my TV?” You ask because you need something to fill the gaps between the nervous shuffling of your body and the ever growing smirk that presents itself knowingly on your mom’s face.

“I thought you might like go to brunch.” You look to Clarke who smiles encouragingly at you.

“That would be nice.”

“And will you join us, Clarke?” She’s already shaking her head by the time the question is out there and you’re a little disappointed but mostly understanding because you can barely entertain a single thought that isn’t about last night (and this morning) with her by your side.

“I have some work to do at the gallery I’m afraid.”

“Sunday dinner then.” It’s not a question. She doesn’t even pretend it’s a question and you know Clarke notices. You know because she tenses at your side and her hand twitches nervously until you catch it with your own and offer her a small squeeze.

“Yep,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ and then immediately cringing at her actions. You want to laugh. You really want to laugh but you don’t think she’d appreciate it and you’d experienced enough of these situations recently to feel sympathetic to her plight. Plus she’s adorable. She’s wrapped up in your clothes and still softened by sleep despite the rude awakening you both received and she’s adorable.

You’re in love with her and she’s adorable.

“I’ll wait downstairs, Alexandria.” Your mother says and you nod as she disappears as quickly as she came in.

“Your mom’s...” She trails off thoughtfully.

“Intimidating?” You attempt to fill in and she shakes her head firmly. “Intense?”

“No.”

“Commanding?” Her eyebrows quirks up mockingly but she stills shakes her head no.

“Black,” she says simply like she finally just decided to say it how it is. You can’t help the chuckle that forces its way out of your mouth at the word because you always just kind of forget that it would be a little strange for a black woman to manage to produce three children that, well, weren't black.

“Oh, right. We’re adopted.” Your mom and dad hadn’t been able to have children of their own, and taking in you and Anya when your sister was two and you were one, seemed to convince them it was worthwhile enough to pick Aden up too when the time came. It wasn’t a sad story, your parents hadn’t been ready for children and you ended up quickly in a happy home with Indra and Gustus who you wouldn’t think of as anything less than your parents. You’d never question that they were your mom and dad just like you’d never question that Aden was your real brother (you changed too many nappies and babysat way too much to think of him as anything less).

“And that makes perfect sense. I blame my current binging of Supergirl for my mind going straight to the secret Kryptonian angle.” You can’t help but smile.

“We both know that’s your secret, _Clarke._ ”

“You could be Lex Luthor.” She comments and you pull her into a slow kiss before running your lips along the shell of her ear and softly whispering.

“You could have just said if you were into role play.” The kiss she places on your lips makes your toes curl and has you honestly debating throwing your mother out of your building and hibernating with Clarke in your bedroom for the rest of the month. The kiss she places on your lips then begs your mind to play it on repeat for the remainder of the day.

She’s so delightfully annoying.

* * *

 

It’s Sunday.

It’s Sunday and you’re sitting outside your house in your car as Clarke quietly panics. You know she’s nervous. She refuses to admit that she’s nervous but you can see it in the way she pulls at her clothes like she’s regretting every choice she made with her wardrobe that morning – personally you think she looks beautiful in black jeans and a blue blouse, it’s simple and her ass looks great but she seems to hate it. Her nerves also show in the way she twiddles her thumbs and thoughtlessly checks her appearance in the mirror every twenty seconds like she’ll suddenly randomly have food in her teeth or smudged lipstick.

You didn’t want to draw attention to it. You figured she wanted you to pointedly ignore the fact that she was all but trembling at the thought of meeting your parents properly and having dinner with your family but you can’t ignore it. You have to draw attention to it because you reached your destination ten minutes ago but she hasn’t been able to will her legs to exit the vehicle and you’re worried.

“You’re nervous.”

“No I’m not.” She scoffs and you roll your eyes good naturedly.

“You’re nervous and that’s fine. I know I’d be freaking out if I met your parents but you’ve already met three out of four, and frankly my mother is by far the worst, but you survived that.” She glares at you but it holds no heat.

“I smelt like sex,” she argues.

“Clarke, she knows you didn’t steal my innocence.” She sighs and you take a moment to brush stray locks behind her ear. Her head tilts into the warmth of your hand as you run your fingertips along her jaw. You love the way her eyes flutter closed at the contact. You love the way the tension slips from her shoulders at your warmth. You love the way she catches your arm and places a soft kiss to your wrist.

You love her.

“It’s just that it was a terrible first impression.”

“I thought you were very charming, and anyway, the first impression you had of me was that I was the idiot that walks into paintings and look at us now.” You still can’t believe you did that. You were such an idiot for doing that and yet, here you were, about to introduce Clarke to your family as your girlfriend and you were happy. You were happy with Clarke and you loved her. You were happy with Clarke and you needed to tell her that you loved her but this didn’t really seem like the right time.

This time being her freaking out while your family (bar your mother who would have more ‘important’ things to be doing) were probably sneakily watching from the window because they were curious as to why you weren’t early like usual or why you were just hanging out in your car instead of going inside.

“Actually my first impression was _holy shit, holy shit_.” She jokes and you kiss her softly once before shoving your door open and walking around the other side to open hers.

“They’ll love you.” She nods. It’s timid and unsure but she nods and you lead her gently to your home. The fact that the door opens before you even have time to knock only confirms your suspicions about their spying.

“Lexie Loo!” Your dad calls and drags you into a firm hug. You hug him back despite the panic coiling in your stomach because he hasn’t called you that since he met your high school girlfriend and thought it would be funny to embarrass you. You wonder how his act has improved over the years seeing as you hadn’t liked anyone enough to bring them home since that point. “And this lovely lady must be Clarke?” You nod and he takes that as all the permission he needs to scoop Clarke up into a similar embrace. You blush but Clarke’s grinning widely and you silently thank your father for having no qualms or boundaries when it comes to hugs.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Woods.”

“You can call me, Gus. Any girl that actually manages to get Lex here to bring them to meet us already gets first name rights, and any girl that gives my boy an A bumps straight up to nickname status.” He’s a dork. Your father is a dork and it’s definitely where you get it from. His story of how he met your mom was far too similar to your own experiences than you would have liked, although you’re incredibly glad that he was the one to hammer a nail into his finger because he was too busy trying to catch your mom’s eye.

“Alright, Gus it is.” They grin at one another and you exhale thankfully.

It was going to be okay.

This whole thing was going to be _okay._

“Hey you two, finally took a break to see the real world?” You always speak to soon. You never factor in the fact that Anya will happily make any situation awkward, so long as it isn’t ultimately awkward for herself. Although, it does work in your favour sometimes, for example, you know the only reason your senior spring break secrets only remain so because, for Anya to spill them, she’d have to implicate herself in a hell of a lot of stuff.

“Break from what?” Aden questions innocently and he looks genuinely curious. It’s in moments like these that you’re reminded he’s still only fourteen and as much as he mocks you for your attractions, he still hasn’t kissed a girl because he’s been secretly crushing on Tris since he was like six.

“Painting, Lex was helping me with my latest piece. Speaking of, how’s your project?” You’re thankful Clarke was quick enough on her feet to have an answer and then continue to shift the focus. You’re even more thankful that Aden was excited enough about his project to cut off any more of Anya’s thinly veiled comments with rushed words about his ideas.

Clarke doesn’t cut him off once, not even after the tenth minute of him describing his painting stroke by stroke. In fact, she actually encourages him to keep talking with small smiles and encouraging nods. She holds your hand the entire time, stroking her thumb along your skin unconsciously and you can’t help the smile that remains a constant fixture on your lips.

You want to tell her you love her with each new stroke.

You want to tell her you love her with each new smile.

You want to tell her you love her.

* * *

 

Things don’t really get awkward until after dinner.

After dinner being the time that Anya took your father’s usual place playing football with Aden and you were left with your parents staring the two of you down silently from across the table. You weren’t nervous that they wouldn’t like her. They definitely seemed to like her. You weren’t nervous that Clarke wouldn’t impress them with her oddly vast repertoire of skills. She was kind of spectacular. You were incredibly nervous that you would do something embarrassing or that your parents would tell some embarrassing story about your youth (or your not-so-youth).

“So do you normally flirt with parents at parent teacher conferences?” Your mother asks with a barely concealed smirk and you’re happy to hear Clarke laughs instead of stumbling over explanations fearfully.

“Technically she’s not a parent, and if anything it was she who flirted with me.” You scoff.

“I wasn’t flirting.” You say and you weren’t, at least, not properly. You didn’t really count your mouth moving without the express permission of your brain, and blurting out your inner thoughts without forethought about the consequences, as ‘flirting’. You mostly just counted it as embarrassing and thanked the gods that Clarke seemed to find your inability to function like a normal person around her cute.

“You told me I had _talented fingers_.” She mocks and you shove her softly.

“It’s a good painting.”

“One that you bought because you got so distracted by me that you walked into.” You blush as your dad laughs heartily. He hadn’t kept his amusement secret the first time Anya recanted the story, nor when Aden told him again the next day, nor when the numerous jokes about it were being made.

“I would’ve bought it anyway.” You say indignantly.

“Alexandria has a penchant for embarrassing herself in front of people she has a crush on. When she was seven she-“ You groan, knowing that it wouldn’t be the last time that evening that your parents would bring up stories about you. It only gets worse when Anya and Aden finish their game, with Aden mumbling that she cheated, before they too fall into _mock Lexa_ mode and began recanting their own tales. You spend most of the night defending yourself and Clarke spends most of the night happily laughing at your misfortunes.

It’s nice.

She’s nice (she’s _amazing_ ).

You almost slip up when you’re driving home that night and she asks to go back to your place. You almost tell her you love her when she thanks you for taking her to meet them. You almost tell her you love her when she kisses you softly in your kitchen, and your living room, and your bedroom. You almost tell her you love her when her breathing steadies against your neck and she slips into sleep.

You almost tell her you love her but you’ve fallen hard and fast, _so stupidly fast_ , and you’re afraid that maybe she doesn’t love you too.

* * *

 

“What if they hate me?” You’re scared. People’s opinions of you hadn’t ever really meant that much to you generally. You liked to be respected and yeah, like most people, you weren’t a fan of thinking people hated you but it wasn’t a big deal. You didn’t need people to want you to be their best friend; you just needed them to not be assholes.

But now, with the people in question being Clarke’s friends, you wanted them to like you. You needed them to like you. You needed them to like you so that Clarke could be reaffirmed that liking you was a good idea and then you could maybe, finally, tell her you love her because you’ve been freaking out about it for weeks.

“That’s not even possible.” You quirk an unbelieving brow and she stops leading you towards the bar to pull you in for a kiss. She’s kissed you more passionately. She’s kissed you harder and faster and needier. She’s kissed you in earlier hours of the day when you haven’t even remembered your name yet but it still makes your breath hitch. Kissing Clarke still drives you insane. “I think you’re pretty damn great and you’ve already got Raven on your side. Plus Jasper will like you just because you’re insanely hot, and Monty is a sweet cinnamon roll who wouldn’t ever think badly of anyone. so you’ll be fine.”

“What about this Octavia?”

“She’ll like you because you glared so hard at her brother that he wouldn’t stop talking about how intimidating you were in the teacher’s lounge for a week.” You smirk and she rolls her eyes with a smile as she catches your lips in a final kiss. The two of you resume your route and push through the doors of a bar called _The Ark._ You’re met with a cheer the moment you step foot in the building and Clarke chuckles before taking a bow and tugging you across the room to the rowdy table.

“Kudos, Princess.”

"OK, I've kindly ignored it for a while now but I need to hear this Princess story." You look upon smirking faces and note that even Monty (who you’d been repeatedly assured was nothing but sweetness) looks like he's going to laugh at the turn of events. Clarke just groans and it only makes you infinitely more curious.

You almost got Raven to indulge you the other night at the bar, but Clarke seemed to have a sixth sense for when you were trying to find out that particular secret and appeared back at your side. You know that Raven has been almost as excited to tell you as you have been to finally find out. Evidently Clarke didn’t think the whole secret thing through because the longer you went wondering, the more curious you became.

“It all begins with a phase I like to call Party Girl Griffin." Raven begins before Octavia excitedly jumps in.

"It was during college and Clarke had this asshole boyfriend called Finn." She pauses as they all make gagging sounds. "He was head of some douchey fraternity or another and so we were basically always at a kegger. Now some of us remained level headed and then there were others, namely Clarke, who insisting on pretending she actually liked asshole Finn,” she pauses so they can all gag once more and you can’t stop yourself from laughing, not even when Clarke elbows you in the side, “would get ultimately blasted at every one and begin challenging people.”

“Not just any challenges though,” Raven begins and it’s punctuated with Clarke’s deep sigh. “Nay, Clarke created the game to end all games in which the winner would be crowned Prince or Princess and got to drink free at all campus bars for the entire semester until a new winner was chosen. Now for the entire time we were at college-“Clarke cuts in.

“I was the Princess and people would shout it at me in the streets.”

“Clarke, don’t downplay your achievements. She beat the fucking college QB at a keg stand.” Raven pats her on the back and you find yourself laughing because honestly you thought it would be worse. You thought maybe it was going to be some kink thing that she had going on back in the day, not that she liked playing beer pong and just so happened to achieve free drinks out of that. If anything, you’re impressed and maybe a little turned on at the prospect of so called _Party Girl Griffin._

"At least my nickname isn't _Commander_." Her friends laugh excitedly and you send a playful glare her way at the realisation that you're going to have to explain the name – one that doesn’t come with a cute story about college antics and definitely sounds like some power kink. You still can’t believe Anya ensured that one comment in elementary school would be your downfall even all these years later and she didn’t even need to be present. Although, truthfully, you’re more shocked that Clarke would throw you under the bus like that.

"You're lucky I'm in love with you." You freeze. She freezes. Her friends freeze too in the next moment and you curse yourself for making the tension so obvious, for not playing the words off like they were nothing more than a slip of the tongue, like they were no big deal, except, they were a big deal.

It was a big deal and you really hadn't intended on telling Clarke you loved her in some shitty bar with a live audience made up of her closest friends. This hadn't been the plan. Not that you had a plan. Just, if you had a plan, it would have been far better than this. Maybe some candles. Some food. Some mind numbingly good sex and then let the confession fall upon happy sated ears.

Not this.

"I gotta pee." You cringe at your attempt to act casual but slip out of your seat nonetheless and all but run in the direction of the toilets. You don't know what you're going to do when you inevitably have to leave the safety of the bathroom. You could get Anya to call and pretend there’s an emergency. You could just climb out of the window. You could drown yourself in the sink. You could also drown yourself in the awkward tension that was sure to be lingering with Clarke at the table.

“Lexa.” Clarke calls softly, and though it’s barely more than a whisper, it feels like her words are shattering your ear drums. Her unsteady breathing is a cacophony of sounds. The rise and fall of her chest sends tremors rippling through your body like earthquakes forcing the plates of your heart apart.

Logically you think she maybe loves you too.

Illogically you’re freaking out because what if this hasn’t meant as much to her as it has to you? What if the green of your eyes hasn’t become her favourite colour like the blue of hers has yours? What if she hasn’t spent hours puzzling over the fact that nothing has made more sense than how perfectly her fingers carve their way into the spaces yours leave behind like you have? What if her first thought in the morning isn’t of you like yours is of her?

What if you didn’t make her completely and truly believe in the ineffable inevitability of love like she did you?

“Clarke, I didn’t mean to spring that on you, or say it so casually, or even at all and we can totally pretend that those words were never uttered and carry on like we have been or, you know, I can walk out of here and conveniently never see you again. But maybe please don’t pick that choice because I don’t think I could handle never seeing you again and having to never eat Lucky Charms because they remind me of you or avoid that really cool park on f-“ The force at which she kisses you has you slamming harshly into the wall. Not that you care. You really couldn’t care less when her hands are messily clutching at any and all skin on offer, when her teeth are nipping at your lips hungrily, and her body is pressing so tightly into yours you almost believe she could sink right into your bones.

Then she pulls back and you should probably regain the ability to breathe. You should probably work out how to keep your balance without her hands keeping you upright. You should probably figure out how to untangle yourself from her, but instead you rest your forehead against hers, and grin at her apparent inability to do any of those things either.

"I'm in love with you too, though I'd have liked to have told you somewhere other than this disgusting bathroom." She smiles and your heart stops. You knew that she loved you back the second she kissed you but hearing it aloud... hearing her tell you that she’s in love with you is something you were entirely unprepared for.

"You..."

"I love you, Lexa Woods." She reiterates and your heart starts again. You press your lips to hers again, and she somehow manages to corral a few brain cells into processing actual logical thought to question the fact that you’re plummeting towards doing something you really shouldn’t be doing in a downtrodden bathroom with no lock. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about them?" You flick your head in the general direction of the bar, and her friends, and the real world.

"We'll tell them there's an emergency, or just climb out of the window, or we'll just tell them that my girlfriend finally, accidentally, told me she loves me and we're going home to have sex." You laugh.

"That could work." It does. It totally does. Not that you’d care if they questioned it anyway because you love Clarke Griffin and Clarke Griffin loves you and, honestly, you can’t name a time in your life that you’d been happier.

Clarke _Fucking_ Griffin loves you.

And you’re happy.


	4. Chapter 4

You used to be pretty sure of your ability to make a good impression on parents. Parents loved you. You have a solid job and you’re polite and you have a clean criminal record (you’re still not sure why the dad of your middle school girlfriend thought that was a necessary thing to check up on). Essentially, you were great on paper, and you were usually pretty great at making it reality, but this time you’re terrified.

You’re terrified because Clarke had kept the two of you a secret from her mother until three days ago, and whilst she consistently pointed out that it wasn’t a secret, that it just hadn’t come up, you were just as quick to point out that the only reason it came out at all was because Raven made a joke when Abby had stopped by her shop to get her oil changed.

Now all you can think is that Clarke probably would’ve kept the relationship a secret until your damn wedding day if it weren’t for Raven’s big mouth, which brings up a few questions.

First, is it a secret because she thinks her mother won’t approve of you? Second, does she really dislike talking to her that much that she couldn’t even drop a quick ‘ _I’m dating someone’_ into a short catch-up convo? Third, should you already be thinking about marrying this girl? (Because you are, you definitely are, more specifically, you were earlier that morning as she snored into a patch of her own drool).

Except now wasn’t the time to be panicking about how quickly you fell in love with the girl driving the car beside you. Now was the time to be panicking about the fact that you were on your way to meet the mother of the girl driving the car beside you. The very mother you know almost nothing about besides the fact that she’s a doctor and Raven had mumbled a good luck, whilst laughing hysterically at you, when you mentioned you were going to meet her.

“Stop bouncing your leg.” Clarke’s laughing but you can hear the assertion in her tone, the slight lilt to her words that is honestly begging you to contain your nerves. You know that the hand she places on your leg both serves to calm you and to physically limit your ability to jiggle your leg in agitation. “God, I haven’t seen you this out of it since painting gate.”

“Don’t you dare tell your mother that story,” you blurt.

“It’s a cute story.” Translation - she’s already been told the story. Why couldn’t she have found the way you dutifully paid your taxes cute? Or that your stable job was just adorable? Why did she have to find your inability to function around her the cutest thing? (Not that you would usually complain since it got you Clarke in the first place)

“It’s going to make her think I’m easily distracted and that I perv on girls in art galleries.”

“As opposed to perving on girls in other places?” Clarke quips and you muster up all of your remaining energy to throw a disapproving glare in her direction until you receive an eye roll and smile in response. “I think you’re overreacting.”

“Well I think you’re under-reacting, Clarke.”

“I’m well aware _, Lexa_. I’m also aware that you’re catnip to parents and really what’s the worst that could happen?” Bad question. Terrible question. You could name a thousand things that could go wrong.

“She could kick me out, or forbid you to be with me, or she could secretly be a witch and put a curse on me and my family for even daring to think that I’m good enough for someone born of her blood.”

“Okay, slow down there Stephen King. If she kicks you out, then she kicks me out. I haven’t listened to my mother about dating choices since ever and this isn’t Romeo and Juliet. Oh, and for the love of god please take a break from reading Aden’s comics.”

“But what if-“

“I love you.” It’s a statement, clear and cut. Clarke doesn’t waver or falter. It slips out of her mouth as easily as it did yours when you accidentally announced it in front of her friends. It makes you grin. It makes your pulse race and your fingers tingle.

The funny thing is it’s not like she hasn’t said it again since then. You say it to each other all the time since that fateful day in a dirty bar bathroom just because you finally can, because you finally know the other will say it back with just as much clarity. You say it every day and it still drives you crazy every time.

“I love you,” she repeats and it only serves to widen the smile that’s taking your face hostage, “and no matter how this goes, I’m still going to love you, so stop worrying. She’ll love you or she won’t and at the end of the day I’m still gonna spoon the shit out of you, okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh. “I love you too.”

“Great, remember that because we’re here.” Your body locks up as you look out to the house that Clarke grew up in. You can see Clarke on the porch swing sketching her life away, unaware of the way passersby would admire the sight. You can see Clarke stumbling home and pretending not to be drunk as she collapses through the door. You can see Clarke playing on the lawn, and Clarke walking up the drive, and Clarke existing in that completely intoxicating way that she does.

It’s sweet, and Clarke loves you, which is also pretty sweet.

You can have lunch with her mother.

_You can have lunch with her mother._

“If I die, give my laptop to Anya, you can have it back once she’s deleted my internet history.” It’s a pact you made when you were younger and like hell if you weren’t sticking to it (if only so you could see what kind of weird stuff Anya gets up to in her spare time on the off chance she gets summoned to hell first).

“Hiding some weird kinks from me?”

“No, I’ve been looking at other artists paintings.” She gasps dramatically, clasping at the door for stability and you wonder if her act is more or less dramatic than the freakout you experienced during the entire drive over. Something tells you the two of you would have differing opinions on that one.

“How could you betray me like this?” She jokes before leaning over the console and delivering a soft whisper of a kiss to your awaiting lips. “Ready?” You shake your head gently before throwing your door open.

“No but let’s go.”

Don’t fuck it up.

* * *

 

It’s not going terribly.

You shook her hand without issue. You drank her, frankly disgusting, iced tea without flinching. You clamped your mouth shut before you made a particularly inappropriate joke. You chewed your way through the driest chicken you’ve ever eaten. You haven’t tripped over, or into, any household items. You’ve been generally not embarrassing.

You repeat - it’s not going terribly.

You might even be on the cusp of saying it was going well, mostly because you’re currently hiding out in Clarke’s childhood bedroom, and you feel rather safe tucked between stuffed bears and old yearbooks. The sketches littering every surface remind you of Clarke’s (and subsequently now your) apartment - all would be places you considered messy if the mess wasn’t the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You’ve been staring at the same picture for longer than you should, too enthralled by its intricacies and depth to remember that you had only meant to go to the bathroom, but who could’ve resisted walking into a room that was so unabashedly Clarke’s.

Curiosity took hold of you as you realised it must have remained in the exact manner she left it in. Curiosity sank its claws in deeper as you questioned why Clarke would ever leave such a drawing behind.

“It’s her father.” Your fingers fumble with the paper for a moment. Your mind fumbles with some excuse as to why you’re in Clarke’s room and not going to the toilet. Your hands catch the page and place it securely back on the desk in the same moment you decide to simply be truthful.

“I’m sorry; I really was going to the bathroom.” Abby smiles softly, running her fingertips along purposeful smudges and effortless lines. You wonder how it must feel for a picture to have more tangibility than a person.

You wonder how it must feel to have lost your person.

“It’s not a problem, Lexa.”

“She doesn’t talk about him much,” you confess. Clarke hadn’t uttered a single word about her father until a month into dating. It was a haphazard comment; at least you know it was supposed to be. It was a comment thrown into conversation with a practised casualty.

It was a comment you knew she had used time and again if the ease in which she spoke it was anything to go by, and yet, the look in her eyes told you that the comment hadn’t gotten easier over time. The hitch in her breathing when she finished speaking told you it hurt. The shake in her bones when you pulled her into your arms told you the pain was irreparable, inevitable, incessant.

“They were close, much closer than Clarke and I ever were. They had their own secret handshake and everything, of course Clarke always forgot it so they mostly just made up a new combination every time.” You chuckle at the idea of bushy eyed Clarke desperately trying to please her first best friend. “He had leukaemia. It hit her hard when we lost him, it hit everyone hard, but Clarke... She didn’t draw anything for a long time; I almost thought she’d give up altogether.”

“That would’ve been a travesty.” It’s an odd thought - the world without Clarke’s art. You know that, in the scheme of things, the world would still turn that, for the most part, a world without Clarke’s art would remain unchanged from its current state.

But you.

You wouldn’t be the same without it. Stepping into that gallery may have brought you Clarke but it also brought you a sense of clarity you hadn’t had before. Clarke’s art was like the moment you put down a good book. Clarke’s art was the abyss after reading words that resonated so deeply with your soul - that second when you wondered how the world could simply keep turning despite being so undeniably flipped in your mind.

Clarke’s art operates like Clarke herself. It burrows itself into your bones, makes you ache with something you couldn’t even begin to describe. It was everything. She was everything.

“I’m sure she’d agree seeing as it’s how she met you.” She smirks. You blush.

“I knew she’d told you.”

“I know Raven probably told you some horror stories about me.” It’s true and yet you still open your mouth to object before she shuts you down with a single knowing glance. “I’ve had my moments but I just want her to be happy.”

“Me too.” She nods firmly and you think you have an understanding. You know the unspoken words are that the two of you will be just fine as long as you protect her daughter. You honestly don’t intend to do anything less.

“I can see that, anyone who eats my chicken with a smile must love my daughter.”

“It is drier than the Sahara desert,” Clarke quips before you can even begin to contest the statement. There’s a smile on her face that dulls just before it hits her eyes. You know she found herself standing there long before she decided to announce her presence.

“And with that insult, I have an appointment to make.” You vaguely note the affectionate squeeze she delivers to your shoulder before she crosses the room and tugs Clarke into a hug. You almost feel you’re intruding until Clarke smiles softly in your direction and laughs off the intimacy with one last pat to Abby’s back.

You want to give her an out.

You don’t want to make her talk about this if she doesn’t want to, if she’s not ready. You love her. You love learning stuff about her. You would give up every moment you have left for the opportunity to climb inside Clarke Griffin’s veins and become privy to every single inch of her very being, but you would give up everything and more just to make her smile.

“I like your vast collection of Care Bears.” Not your best segue ever, although it’s also probably not your worst so you’ll take it (especially when it leads to Clarke smiling and pulling you into an embrace of your own).

“I like you,” she mumbles against your neck. It makes your heart falter. The kiss she presses to your jaw in place of punctuation makes it threaten to stop altogether.

“You sure know how to make a girl blush, Griffin.” You joke and she pulls back just enough to catch your eyes. There’s a determination in her gaze that you haven’t witnessed too often. You’ve seen competition thrive in her eyes whenever Aden coerces her into a game of Mario Kart. You’ve been privy to the tenacity in those orbs when she talks you out of work and into bed, but this... this was something else.

This was a resolute resolve.

“I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Is that a come on?” You question with cocked brow and she grins as she captures your hand in her own and begins to lead you back downstairs.

“Not this time."

“Lead the way then,” you find yourself saying as she shoves your shoes into your hand and urges you to slip them on with the hand not clasped in hers. Maybe you should question it. If it were anyone else you would probably (definitely) question it.

You don’t question it.

“Later on though, when I say it again, know that it’s definitely a come on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you chuckle and slip through the door in her stead.

* * *

 

It’s not what you were expecting.

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Not this.

It feels private. It feels like a declaration that transcends those three little words. It feels like she’s handing you the key to a room she’s kept firmly locked for a long time, heck, it feels like she’s telling you there’s an entire room you never even knew existed. You’re honoured. You’re completely terrified that you’ll say something wrong or that she’ll decide this whole thing was a mistake but you’re honoured.

She steps on the grass like it’s hallowed ground. Each step is hesitant but practised. Each movement tentative but sure. She leads you to a well kept grave, her father’s name stares back at you in a manner you never wish to see your own father’s displayed. Palms shake as she places the bouquet she bought from a woman who smiled sadly and prepared the flowers without a word spoken between them.

Zinnias.

You know what they mean. The yellow for remembrance. The magenta for lasting affection. The red for family, constancy, steadfastness - like the beat of a human heart. You recognise the flowers from her room. Painted flowers that lay unexplained and everlasting above her bed.

You never asked why that was the painting she chose to hang in the sanctity of her bedroom. It never seemed like a big deal, until now, until this moment when you wonder if that was her way of having him close to her. You wonder why the flowers hurt any less than the endless photos she leaves hidden in a box in her closet. You wonder if anyone else has ever made it this far into the mind of Clarke Griffin.

You selfishly wish no and selflessly hope yes.

“Hey, Dad. I, um, I brought someone today. Someone who isn’t Raven for once. She doesn’t know a lot about engineering though unfortunately, so you might think she’s super boring, or maybe you need a break from Raven’s incessant jabbering about her new project. Either way I quite like this someone, even if she does talk my ear off about how cool giant squid are when I’m trying to sleep. But, she came to lunch today, and she ploughed through mum’s chicken like a champ so I guess you’d probably quite like her too. _Anyway_ , I’m babbling, so... here’s Lexa.”

“Do I just...” You nod your head unsurely towards the stone. You’ve never been here before. You’ve never felt more like the world is resting on your shoulders, but Clarke is grasping your hand like she’s willing to shift the weight to her own at any time and you can do this. Clarke is breathing like each inhale is the only barrier between her and tears and you _will_ do this.

 “I’d shake your hand but... I’m sorry that was a terrible joke. I’m nervous because no one says much about you, which I think means you have to have been the kind of person who words can’t do justice. I’d like to be that kind of person when I’m gone. I know you’re daughter will be because she already leaves me speechless. But you already know that. Thank you for, well, thank you for Clarke – I’m personally a big fan. I, err, I like your outfit, _shit_ ; I need to stop making jokes. I’m sorry about the jokes.”

You’re such an asshole. An insensitive asshole. Also a giant idiot who never knows when to shut their mouth and who made Clarke... laugh. Clarke is laughing. Clarke is laughing and giving you that look which you have come to realise means _I can’t believe I’m in love with this dork_ (you love that look).

“He would’ve loved you.” Not the exact words you were expecting. You were more thinking something along the lines of _this isn’t a joke_ or _can’t you be serious for one minute_. Not that you’re complaining. You’d never complain about something that means Clarke’s smiling (and that also means you haven’t gotten yourself in trouble with your awkwardness).

“Big fan of inappropriate jokes?” She grins knowingly down at the stone, almost as though she expects a smile in return. You can’t help but conjure up the image. Two mirrored smiles on mirrored faces. Clarke smiling wider because she found approval in her father eyes.

It makes you ache.

“You have no idea. He almost did a full stand-up routine at my great aunt Kelly’s funeral. I loved it, some of the others, not so much.” The two of you chuckle lowly. “Honestly though, she was kind of a bitch.” You gasp loudly, gaining the attention of a nearby woman. Your apologetic smile doesn’t seem to go down so well with her, but it has Clarke grinning like a Cheshire cat, and considering that had been your goal in the first place you’re counting it as a win

“Speaking ill of the dead in a cemetery, you really like to live life on the edge.”

“You know me, a real risk taker.” She winks and you can’t resist the urge to pull her into you. You never know what to say in situations like these, probably because you spend so much time avoiding them that you never actually experience them. It’s for that reason that you simply press a kiss to her temple and hope that it expresses all that you can’t say.

You hope she hears the unspoken ‘I love you’. You hope she understands the unvoiced ‘I’ll always be with you’. You hope she knows that there’s an undeclared ‘you’re so strong’ lingering somewhere on the edge of your tongue. She nuzzles further into your side and you think that she must.

“Thank you for taking me here.”

“Thanks for being you,” she replies simply as she begins leading you back to her car.

“It’s not a problem. Last time I tried to change my identity it didn’t go so well.” Her eyes roll but she’s smirking like she’s about to say something wholly inappropriate for the middle of a cemetery and you’re both a little scared and a little excited. “I wanna take you somewhere.”

“We gonna do it in your twin bed?” You wiggle your eyebrows and laugh heartily at the groan you receive in response.

“You’re a dork. But yes.”

* * *

 

“You gonna get on your knee?” You can’t quite remember the thought process that ended with you honestly believing Raven would be a good person to go to for advice about this. You must have been drunk. You must have been so blackout drunk that you couldn’t conjure up any sensible ideas because this particular idea was terrible. There was no universe in which she would be the sensible choice for a serious conversation, and yet, here you were, regretting the choice massively, but here nonetheless.

“I’m asking her to move in with me, not be my wife.” You reply for what feels like the thousandth time, but is realistically around the fourth. The first time came when Raven asked if you were gonna take her to dinner and have them put it in the dessert (which, for the record, would not be how you propose considering Clarke inhales food like a vacuum).

The second was when she asked if you wanted a sky writer because she ominously ‘ _knew a guy’_. The third you can’t completely recall which you’ve come to decide means it was the worst of all and your brain has made the executive decision to repress the memory.

“For now,” she snorts before continuing, “she’d like it though, ‘cause you guys are always being cheesy as fuck.”

“No we’re not,” you contest weakly. The two of you aren’t that cheesy. Sure there may have been a couple of moments that could be considered overly cutesy but you don’t think you warrant ‘cheesy as fuck’ status.

“What about the time you bought her an apple at work? Or when you head butted each other because you were too scared to just ram her against the wall like you obviously wanted to from day one?” Fair enough. You’ll let her have those two.

“Other than that.”

Anya strolls in from your kitchen where she was undoubtedly pilfering snacks. You’re proved right when you catch sight of her hand dipping into a share bag of Cheetos, which is weird when you think about it, because you never buy Cheetos. You never buy them, but Anya is definitely eating them, and the smirk on her face when she catches you eyeing the bag tells you she definitely stole them from your kitchen.

_Your kitchen._

_In which you did not put Cheetos._

“You walked into a painting,” she mumbles with a full mouth and you immediately forget everything beyond the current conversation. Honestly, all you wanted was some confidence boosting, E.G. _Don’t worry Lexa; Clarke totally wants to move in with you_. You definitely didn’t want to be attacked for your ultimate gayness once again.

“I’m never living that down,” you lament.

“No you are not.” You’re about to argue, because you’re a lawyer and you refuse to back down from this on the principle of it all, when you hear the door unlock and watch Clarke stroll in nonchalantly.

Clarke just walked through the door.

The locked door.

The locked door of your apartment to which only you are supposed to have a key.

“How did you get in?” You’re confused. You’re so very confused. Anya’s brow is creased and Raven’s doing an impressive imitation of a fish and you know that they’re confused to. Even Clarke adopts a face of confusion when the question slips from your lips and _what the hell is going on?_

“My key?” She lifts it into your field of vision alongside her words and you stare at it for a second. Then at the one in your hand. Then back at the one in her hand. It’s identical. You’re both holding the exact same key and how did she get a key? When did she get a key? You’re freaking out but Clarke seems completely nonplussed by the situation at hand, absentmindedly dipping her hand into the bag of Cheetos Anya is powering through.

“I didn’t...”

“You had a spare on your keychain and it just seemed like it would be easier than constantly knocking and praying you’re home to let me in.” How hadn’t you noticed an entire key missing from your chain? It literally consisted of four keys, well, three now. You had a grand total of four keys to keep an eye on and you misplaced one and didn’t even notice.

You really needed to start paying more attention.

“So you have a key?” You question again, much to Clarke’s apparent amusement as she smiles and nods slowly like she’s waiting for you to catch up. “How long?”

“Like a month,” she says casually. You lean further into the chair, like sinking into its cushions will somehow make all this information sink into your brain easier. It doesn’t. It only brings more questions, namely _‘when did I buy this chair?’_

“The chair I’m sitting on isn’t my chair either, is it?” You’re an idiot.

“Well, in the sense that ‘ _what’s mine is yours’_ then, yes, it is your chair, but in the sense that it came from my apartment then, no, no it isn’t.” Definitely a huge idiot. A huge oblivious idiot who somehow managed to find a girl stupid enough to actually want to live with you.

“Your apartment...which you haven’t been living in have you?” She grins and abandons her place beside Anya to perch on the arm of your chair. You would probably feel worse about this whole situation if it weren’t for her hands running gently through your hair or that, despite the way it happened, Clarke is moving in with you (or, well, Clarke has already moved in with you).

“It’s currently more of an art studio.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice,” Raven gasps between laughter, and you attempt to summon a glare from beneath the giddy feeling in your chest, before giving up and tugging Clarke into your lap. You don’t really notice when Raven and Anya leave. You vaguely note that the raucous laughter subsiding before it disappears altogether, but you’re a little busy doing other things, more specifically, you’re a little busy kissing Clarke.

Clarke who loves you.

Clarke who trusts you.

Clarke who moved in with you.

Clarke who you’re going to marry (you just have to ask first, or hope that she’s already forged the marriage license behind your back because she couldn’t wait for you to catch up).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I have a thing for secret move-ins, also Kate McKinnon (but who doesn't).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - hope this isn't shit.

“That’s a ring.” Yep. It was a ring. An engagement ring. An engagement ring that you had spent weeks picking out. An engagement ring that you had spent weeks picking out and not told anyone about until this moment. Until this moment when you asked Abby Griffin if you had her blessing to marry her daughter (also known as the scariest moment of your life).

“It is,” you answer timidly. She seems more shocked than anything, which could either be a good thing or the worst thing ever in that it translates to _I never thought you and my daughter would actually get far enough in this relationship that proposals would be on the table_. You don’t think it’s the latter. You really hope it isn’t the latter. “You seem surprised. I kind of figured you knew where this was going when I talked about how much I love Clarke for two minutes and seventeen seconds.”

“You counted?” She chuckles incredulously.

“Not this time. I practised it a lot though.” _A lot._ You didn’t start timing it until you realised a ten minutes speech could be seen as a little excessive, and allowing yourself to unnecessarily ramble wasn’t going to go anywhere good knowing your track record.

“Why?” She asks plainly and you’re thankful someone is taking charge of navigating this conversation (you’re even more thankful that it isn’t you).

“It seemed like something I should do. Clarke’s your only child and I just, I don’t know, I wanted you to know that your opinion matters, and maybe your approval too, because that would be nice.” You were always raised to be polite, and follow traditions, and be respectful. You were also raised to be smart enough to realise that, in the end, Clarke was all Abby really had in the way of true family nowadays and that was important.

Her opinion was important.

Her having Clarke in her life was important.

You didn’t want to be the one to ruin that.

“I’m not sure Clarke would like the idea of me dictating who she marries.” You’re not sure she would either - exactly why you won’t actually be divulging this part of your proposal plan to Clarke. A plan which currently only really consisted of two poorly planned steps (1. Ask Abby, 2. Think of a way to actually propose, 2b. Don’t put it in dessert; you know Clarke will devour it before she notices anything amiss).

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’ll propose either way. I just think I’d sleep easier if you said yes. “Abby laughs and you allow yourself to join in after a moment when you realise hers is genuine. Her laughter doesn’t deter your heart from pounding in your chest, however, or stop your palms from sweating as you await her verdict.

You’re genuinely terrified.

You’re not lying when you say you’ll propose anyway but you don’t want to be the reason for a rift between the Griffin Girls. You probably wouldn’t sleep at night. You were nowhere near as ruthless as you pretended to be at work, or when you had to stand your ground at extended family dinners (you really were ruthless then but your Great Aunt H(omophobe)elen deserved it).

“It’s a nice ring,” she says. You blink. That’s not really a response. You were kind of (definitely) hoping for a response that was more of a... response.

“It was my grandmothers. I think technically it should go to Anya but no one really trusts her not to lose it or something.” She hums thoughtfully, no doubt pondering on meeting Anya the month before. She lost both her phone and her keys that day. She ultimately found them but the seed of doubt had already been planted. You personally know you got the ring both because Anya had already lost a family heirloom and your mother was completely besotted with Clarke.

“So what does _it’s a nice ring_ translate to in the Griffin household?” You ask, nervously twiddling your thumbs as you await the outcome.

“Yes. It translates to yes.”

“Oh thank God,” you exhale, your whole body relaxing further into the chair as you take it all in. You have her blessing. You have her blessing to ask Clarke to marry you because you’re going to ask Clarke to marry you. You’re actually going to have to ask Clarke to marry you.  A truth far more daunting than asking Abby’s permission. Maybe you should have thought this through more. What if she says no to you? Or just laughs at how ridiculous you’re being? Or moves to Mexico to escape?

No, you’re going to ask.

You love Clarke.

Clarke loves you.

You’re going to woman up and ask.

“Just, maybe don’t hide it in a dessert.” She smiles and you can’t help the joyous laughter that erupts from you.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply. It startles you when you feel a carefully calloused hand softly take your own, but the words out of her mouth in the next breath startle you even further.

“You would have had his blessing too, just so you know.” You don’t mean to hug her but, regardless of intent, you still find her tightly clasped in your arms. There is no hesitation in the hug from either side. There is nothing but silent understanding, and sympathy, and warmth.

You sit there for longer than you probably should, simply holding her in your arms. You think you both need it. You for courage, to push you to do what you’re terrified to do despite the excitement that flows in your veins. Her for courage too, you suppose, in her own way, courage to let her daughter go be someone else’s everything, to see her daughter be so wholly in love like she was, _is_ , even in spite of the terrible end.

It’s nice.

You decide in that moment that you won’t let fear ruin this.

You also decide to hug Abby Griffin whenever the chance arises (you think you could both use more hugs in your life).

* * *

 

You were just trying to hide the ring.

All you wanted to do was find a solid hiding place that Clarke would never look in. You truthfully debated hiding it in the health foods cupboard - a cupboard that Clarke never dared to open, like somehow the sheer sight of protein shake powder would make her hate chocolate - but then you remembered that it was Christmas and you had been warned about _Christmas Clarke_.

Christmas Clarke: a Clarke that appears once a year during the holiday season. Christmas Clarke can be characterised as erratic, childish, and prone to turning the house upside down in search of her Christmas presents because she has no patience (something tells you the health cupboard is the first place she would look after years of practise).

So you’re in your bedroom, frantically scrambling for a place to hide the damn thing when she bursts in and you haphazardly shove it into your pocket in a panic. You suppose on your person is as good a place as any.

“You hiding my present?”

“No.” It sounds convincing enough to your ears, though apparently it’s not enough to convince Clarke because she shifts knowingly towards you. There’s a spring in her step that warns you she isn’t simply going to ask again. There’s a smirk on her face that tells you to keep your guard up.

It’s rather idiotic that you actually believe it’s a kiss she wants as she smiles mischievously and leans towards you. It’s naive to not realise that her hands aren’t simply reaching to rest on your waist. In hindsight her goal is obvious. As her fingers graze your side and you feel jolting laughter expel itself from your body it all seems so obvious.

“Clarke, stop,” you mumble lowly, grabbing at her hands in vain attempt to end this all before it really begins. She keeps tickling you in spite of your pleas until all your words tumble into laughter and you can’t think to fight with words any more. Instead you wrap your arms securely around her waist and easily topple her onto your bed, beginning your own assault of her sides a second later.

“Lexa, Lex, stop. I can’t- I can’t breathe.” She struggles and you only grin harder as your fingers dance mercilessly along her side. “Lex, I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna-“You don’t expect it. Of course you don’t except it. The gasp that Clarke emits tells you that she didn’t even expect it herself. One moment she was writhing, and gasping, and laughing (a true sight to behold) and the next moment her hand was flinging through the air without true direction and crashing into your face.

The first thing you note is that it hurts. It _really_ hurts. The second thing you notice is that it’s a familiar pain, a pain that you recognise you’ve suffered before, a pain you suffered after a mishap between your face and a painting. The third thing that catches your attention is the blood - you can taste it in your mouth, and feel it dripping down your face, and you should probably do something about that.

_You should definitely do something about that._

“Holy shit, Lex, get your coat.”

“Can’t you just set it, you have medical training.” You really don’t want to go to the hospital. You know Clarke would be much softer in her treatment of your nose. You know she’d do that cute nose scrunch thing when she concentrates and give you a soft kiss for being brave (read: refusing to look weak and flinch). You also personally think it’s unnecessary when you have a perfectly capable trained medical professional at home who could just work some magic and let you get on with your life.

“I just broke your nose, Lexa. I’m not even risking touching it again.” Her words are contrasted by the gentle hand that comes up to press a cloth to your nose. You almost hope she’s just bluffing you. You almost debate just attempting it yourself until she gives in and does it for you but the look on her face tells you that she knows exactly what you’re thinking and that she’s not having any of it. “Get your coat.” You sigh but oblige anyway because you know she’ll win eventually, and you’re in enough pain to just let that victory be now.

You curse your decision as you await the nurse and find a familiar face appearing with your chart and a cheeky grin. So maybe you had been giving out some half truths about the whole _walking into a painting_ ordeal. Namely that when you committed such act you may have done it with such a force that you managed to, _maybe_ , break your nose. There had been less blood then, and it healed before you had to face Clarke again, but the break had definitely taken place (as had the ultimate teasing from your family).

“Lexa Woods, I haven’t patched you up in a while, not since you walked into that painting and I had to reset your nose, which I see is apparently happening again today.”You had been so good at keeping that little secret to yourself. Somehow even Anya hadn’t let it slip to Raven. You’d like to think that came from the goodness of her own heart, but you have a feeling it was more to do with her love of waiting until the last moment to drop the bomb.

She always liked to be dramatic.

“Oh my God, I’ve unintentionally broken your nose twice,” Clarke laments.

“Oh you’re _the Clarke_. I can see why you turned my coffee offer down,” the nurse chuckles. Costia you think her name is. She’s pretty. You can recognise that. You recognised it the moment you met her but you were too busy having a broken nose, and thinking about a pretty girl, to actually act upon the thought. That doesn’t stop Clarke’s brow from cocking up in question at the statement.

“Coffee offer?” You don’t think she’s jealous. She looks kind of jealous though. It’s subtle but it’s there - the slight frown at the corner of her mouth, the way her eye keep darting towards Costia as though she’s sizing her up, the tightening of her grip on your hand.

“We weren’t even dating and I said no, obviously.” You rush to explain, even though you’re fairly sure you have nothing to explain (always be safe, kids). Although, maybe the obviously was a little too much. You sharply turn to the other woman in the room. “Not that you’re not delightful. Your nose setting skills are truly stellar.” She chuckles. You feel Clarke’s grip revert back to the more comforting one. Crisis - averted. Nose - still broken.

“You’ll be happy to know it’s not so bad, you’ll have some minor bruising but it should heal up just fine, right after we pop it back.” Super. Hopefully it’ll be faint enough by the next family dinner that your mom will just tell you to get more sleep and let it go.

“You don’t have to sound so excited,” you quip to Costia, who you’re fairly sure is bouncing a little at the prospect of snapping your nose back into place but hey, maybe that’s what got nurses going, who were you to judge?

“Sorry but anything is better than nervous mothers who bring their children in for mild stomach pains.” You completely understand that. You had encountered a fair share of those in the waiting room yourself (and you were at least allowed the solace of glaring at them and making snarky comments to a chuckling Clarke under your breath).

“Well, have at it.” You gesture grandly to your nose, tipping your face towards her hands as she goes about her work. You don’t flinch when it happens. You barely blink. It should give you cool points. Being that casual about this whole thing should definitely give you cool points – if you were with anyone else you think it would undoubtedly give you cool points but it just makes Clarke curious (and Curious Clarke is eerily similar to Christmas Clarke).

“How often have you had this done?” Clarke asks. You shrug nonchalantly, pretending not to know. You know. You definitely know.

“I’m clumsier than I look,” you state cryptically. You’re really not all that clumsy. You’re poised, and have good hand-eye coordination, and usually glare enough people out of your way to not trip over their feet when walking. It’s just that, you know, sometimes you see pretty girls and lose all ability to walk and also sometimes sibling fights get a little out of hand.

“I’ve started to realise that,” she throws back and you grin, swinging your legs childishly.

“No take backs, you got me now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She punctuates her reply with a soft kiss to your lips. You can’t help but flinch then as her nose presses into your own. You still find yourself whining when she pulls her lips away to check how you’re doing though. She chuckles as she continues on. “Come on, brawler, I’ll get you ice cream.”

“Clarke, it’s December.” She stares back silently for a moment.

“Is that a no to ice cream?” She asks incredulously.

“Of course not,” you scoff. “Let’s go.”

Clarke was so buying you a double scoop for this.

At least, on the brightside, she didn’t find the ring.

* * *

 

You take her to an art museum.

You take her to her _favourite_ art museum because it’s a good spot. It’s a great spot. Asking Clarke to marry you in one of the places she is most happy can only help your chances. All of your weaknesses will be overshadowed by the fantastic art, and if she happens to say no, then you can easily hide in a museum - lots of paintings, and statues, and confusing turns with next to pointless signage and whatnot.

It also doesn’t hurt that Clarke looks even more beautiful than usual when surrounded by art. She floats from piece to piece with more excitement than you think you’ve ever witnessed before and it’s magnificent. She takes in every line, every stroke, every colour. She doesn’t mess around when it comes to art.

Watching Clarke in an art museum makes her own art make so much more sense - its precision, its complexity, its sheer beauty. But most of all you love the smile that sits permanently on her face as she takes it all in, as she stares like she’s never seen it before when you know for a fact she’s lost count of the amount of times she’s been to this museum alone.

“You’re supposed to be enjoying the art,” she laughs without even glancing your way.

“I am,” you reply and her laughter only grows. She still doesn’t turn away and you allow yourself another moment to enjoy the edge of her jaw, the light shining on her hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the blue of her eyes (debilitating even when she’s not looking directly at you).

All of it.

All of _her_ is art.

“You’re a dork, and a dangerous one at that. I’m not sure you could afford walking into one of these paintings because my ass is too distracting.” You forgot to mention her ass. Her ass is also a work of art. You would marry her for her ass alone - obviously it helps that she’s smart, and funny, and kind, and makes your stomach do that swoopy thing, and your family actually like her... She’s actually kind of perfect (her ass is just the cherry on top).

“The debt would be worth it,” you joke and she finally looks at you, if only so you can fully experience the extent of her eye roll.

“Dork,” she whispers again softly, but she kisses you tenderly anyway and you feel yourself physically melting into her before she takes your hand and tugs you towards a new painting. She doesn’t let go as she falls into a new trance, and you fall into one of your own as you clutch the ring in your pocket with your free hand.

You just need to psyche yourself up. You just need to pump yourself up and do it. You can do it. You can turn to Clarke and you can tell her that she means more to you than anything in this world. You can tell her that you love her, that you want to spend the rest of your life with her, that she makes you happier than you’ve ever been and a bunch of other mushy feeling stuff that you will deny ever having said when Anya and Raven inevitably look for ammo to mock you with under the pretence of interest.

“Clarke I-“

“Clarke, hey!” You both spin around quickly. You tense the moment you turn and find a man with a cocky smile and a stupid haircut eyeing Clarke up like it’s his job because of course this douche had to show up now. “I suppose I should have known you’d spend your free time with more art,” he continues on and you could really do with him shutting up, and then leaving, and preferably never interacting with the two of you again.

“Oh, well, you know, do what you love, speaking of, Finn this is my girlfriend Lexa.” You immediately start choking on your own saliva as she happily smirks in your direction. Why were you openly choosing to marry someone who purposefully made everything sexual just to watch you blush? “Lex, this is the new gym teacher at school.” _Of course he teaches gym._

“Pleasure.” You don’t sound pleased. Not even in the slightest and you know Clarke can tell. Clarke can always tell. She has this thing, a super power if you will, where she always seems to know what you’re really thinking. Or maybe you’re just being really obvious. The latter is definitely a possibility if the slight touch of fear on his face is anything to go by.

You should maybe tone down your glare.

(You won’t).

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” You could hit him. You pack a mean punch, especially when it’s to the face of a total douche canoe (see: fifth grade dalliance with Kyle Wick). Also, as previously stated, easy to hide in an art museum if all goes awry, or if Clarke gets angry at you for punching a colleague - obviously you’re far more scared of angry Clarke than any other consequence.

“Really? I literally hear some kid or another talking about it every day at work,” she mentions, turning to you with a conspiratorial smile before she continues on to say, “apparently you’ve been caught roaming the halls a few times and have amassed quite the fan club.”

“Fan club?” You question confusedly. _Fan club? What were they even fanning over? Had you somehow amassed a following of teen children?_

“Yep, I think Aden is staring to get a little annoyed hearing about how hot his sister is.”

“I’m not quite sure how I should be feeling about this.” On one hand, Aden was getting annoyed, and you loved annoying Aden even if it was unintentionally. On the other hand, there were a bunch of teenagers roaming around and calling you hot behind your back which was a little disconcerting when you thought too much about it. Do they know where Aden lives? Do they know where you live?

_Oh God, what if they knew where you lived?_

“You get used to it,” Finn cuts back in, and you’re really starting to wonder why he was still talking to you. Of course by starting you mean you had been thinking it since the beginning of the conversation but were almost ready to vocalise the thought.

You can tell Clarke is on your side by the curve of her brow. You see, Clarke has two distinctive ways of cocking her brow - one that says _come hither_ and the other that says _really?_ You find the second still comes off affectionately for you but apparently not so much for Finn.

Lexa 1 - Finn 0.

“Right. Well it was nice to see you Mr.Collins but we’re actually on a date, so...”

“Of course. See you Monday, Princess.” The realisation hits you like a tonne of bricks as the nickname rolls off his tongue because of course the universe had to have Clarke’s douche of an ex boyfriend working at the same school as her.

Honestly, you hadn’t heard much about him beyond the chorus of gagging sounds her friends threw out whenever his name was mentioned but those gagging sounds were enough for you to know that you didn’t want him anywhere near Clarke.

“So your ex works with you now.” You don’t even try for casual. It’s not going to come off casual. Clarke’s immediate reply is an eye roll, a sigh and a soft press of her lips to your cheek. You smile. Of course you smile and she knows she’s already won.

“We work in the same school. The same _very big_ school. The very same school in which the art room and the gym are on opposite sides. Also he’s a douche, who obviously just ditched his date to attempt to hit on me, and you’re a very pretty girl, whom I love, and who takes me to art museums even though she’s far more interested in the one with the octopus hanging from the ceiling.”

“It’s a giant squid, Clarke, and I think you know that,” you reply indignantly and she shifts closer, brushing her lips tauntingly along the shell of your ear.

“I think you know that you talking about giant squids makes me want to have sex with you.” You’re in love with an idiot, an incredibly hot idiot who knows just what plays to make to help you forget about exes, but an idiot nonetheless.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re right, but you’re also gonna get your cute little butt back to the car right now so we can go home and you can tell me all about giant squid,” she husks and you can’t help the shiver that trickles down your spine at the honey tone and underlying offer.

“This is an extremely odd kink you’ve acquired,” you quip despite the fact that you’re not entirely sure this is a joke. The two of you had tried weirder things because Clarke kept saying _don’t knock it ‘til you try it_ and you weren’t backing down from a challenge.

“Kinkshame me in the car, Lexa, come on.” You find yourself laughing but you follow along without question anyway because it’s Clarke, and its sex with Clarke, and you’re not an idiot.

Except maybe you are because the ring is still burning a hole in your pocket.

And you still haven’t asked.

And holy shit you just want to ask.

* * *

 

You’re laughing.

You’ve been laughing since the start and honestly, at first, she was laughing too. But then she got to the third box and she wasn’t finding it so funny anymore. You, however, were still happily laughing along. You had to. It would be impossible not to laugh at the disgruntled sounds Clarke made as she unwrapped one box only to find another wrapped box inside. It was too good. If anything your laughter was her fault for having such ludicrous reactions (mostly your fault though for doing it).

She had looked so confused as she walked into the living room and took in the size of her present. Confusion turned to excitement a second later as she obviously mentally went through all of the options for what it possibly could have been. The confusion seeped back in when she found another box inside but that quickly turned to annoyance as she unwrapped yet another box and figured out what you had done.

“Lexa Woods, you are an asshole,” she mumbles when she reaches the seventh. You can’t really blame her – you did go a little over board. Although, in your defence, you knew what was in the smallest box and you knew that you needed some time to settle your heart rate and figure your last minute shit out before she made it that far.

(Honestly there was also a part of you that was hoping she would figure it out half way and you could discern if she wanted to say yes or no from how excitedly she unwrapped the rest).

“Keep going,” you urge when she mumbles grumpily and sends a glare your way. She huffs in response but acquiesces anyway, picking up the pace when she starts to realise that the boxes don’t really have the ability to get much smaller. You know it’s clicked when she gasps and stares at the ring sized box like she’s never set eyes on one before.

“Lexa-“ She starts but you have to speak.

You have to get it out already.

You have to get it out _finally._

“Clarke, I’ve been trying to work out how to do this for a while, and then I just spent ages trying to figure out how in the hell I’m supposed to actually ask, and honestly I kept coming up with nothing. I had no idea what to say and then I realised that, as cheesy as it sounds, I couldn’t figure it out because I don’t have the words to express how you make me feel. You make me feel so much that I forget my legs, and my mouth, and anything that’s not you and I love it. _I love you._ I love you and I would like to spend the rest of my life walking into paintings, and saying stupid things, and just generally embarrassing myself, if you’ll allow me. So, _Clarkandria Griffin_ , would you do me the honour of being my wife?” She stares. You wait a count. Then another. And another. “Some semblance of an answer would be nice.”

She kisses you then. It’s rushed, and messy, and you can feel tears running down your face that definitely didn’t come from your eyes. You can barely breathe wrapped in her arms and pinned by her kisses and you’ve never felt more alive. “Yes.” She kisses you solidly again. Correction - now you’ve never felt better. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” She punctuates each one with a new kiss. Your cheek. Your nose. Your forehead. Your jaw.

She kisses you until all you can taste is the candy canes she had been gradually sneaking off the tree behind your back. She kisses you until all you can smell is her perfume, and her skin, and everything that is Clarke. She kisses you until all you can feel are her hands mapping every inch of you and her lips following not far behind. She kisses you until all you can see are her eyes staring back at you, and stars, and the shine of the ring on her finger. She kisses you until all you can hear is the rushed symphony of your heart and hers hammering in perfect tandem.

She kisses you until all you can think is _yes, yes, yes._

_She said yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally changed my tumblr to fit every other account I have so you can find me at c--and--b.tumblr.com if there's anything you wanna read, or just wanna find someone as bitter as you.
> 
> Oh and happy holidays!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably actually will be the last one this time so I hope it's not shit and sorry for any mistakes.

You’re nervous.

Of course you’re nervous. There is not a single person in your situation that wouldn’t be nervous and honestly it’s not because you don’t want this - you can’t think of a single thing you want more than this. But excitement doesn’t negate that little twinge of fear in the back of your head. The fear that you’ll fall over, or someone will actually object, or Anya will do that thing where she tries to whisper but it comes out obnoxiously loud.

To make a long story short, you’re getting married. To make that same long story very much long, you’re marrying Clarke Griffin today (in ten minutes to be precise). You’re actually marrying Clarke Griffin. Clarke Griffin who had made you nervous since the first moment you met her and then every second since. Clarke Griffin who kept you on your toes at all times. Clarke Griffin who knew just how and when to be there for you when you couldn’t work out how to ask for help. Clarke Griffin who made your heart hammer, and your palms sweat, and your feet forget themselves.

_Your_ Clarke.

You were marrying _your_ Clarke.

You’re still nervous. You’re also the most elated you’ve ever been as you stand in your tux and wonder what Clarke looks like right now. You wonder if she’s doing that panicked pace thing she does when faced with the unknown, or just when she has to wait more than five minutes after she’s finished getting ready to get on with things. You wonder how many times Raven has told her she’s being annoying (probably about the same amount as Anya has told you). You wonder if her mum is crying yet. You wonder how many comments Octavia has made about how Clarke is _so getting laid_ tonight (your guess would be way too many).

You wonder if, like you, she can’t stop smiling.

“You ready?” Anya asks. The fact that she asks softly, her hand gently touching your elbow like she would genuinely halt the proceedings if you needed another few seconds, is how you know that you look scared. You think she must be able to see the shake in your bones, and the tremor in your hands. You think she must know that you’ve been waiting a long _, long_ , time for this and now that it’s here you just need it to be perfect. You want it to be perfect. For Clarke. And for yourself. But, in truth, any moment with Clarke is perfect – even when it’s just her shovelling Lucky Charms into her mouth until she’s practically gagging because she woke up late again despite you trying to get her up at a reasonable time.

She was such a child.

(You love her).

“Ready,” you say and you really thought you were. Standing under a flower arch, hoping it wouldn’t rain, and attempting to pretend you weren’t currently being stared at by all of your guests, you really thought you were ready.

You weren’t.

You’re not sure there was ever a way you could have readied yourself to watch Clarke walk down the aisle. It’s a slightly (incredibly) insane situation. Sometimes when you woke up and found Clarke drooling on her pillow you found yourself thinking that she was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. In truth, you’d been thinking that particular thought since you first laid eyes on her but now... Now you can taste your heart on your tongue, you can hear it thudding at an almost unhealthy pace.

You can’t take your eyes off of her.

You still can’t believe this is happening. You still can’t believe that the woman walking towards you is going to be your wife. You still can’t believe that Clarke agreed to an outdoor wedding. Clarke who hates everything about the reality of the outdoors, bar picnics because she loves food, but loves you. Clarke who loves you enough to marry you outdoors like you had always secretly dreamed but never once admitted to anyone but her. Clarke who you think might be crying as she walks towards you.

Only maybe they’re your tears

Maybe they’re both.

Abby is definitely crying. Abby who is walking proudly by her daughters side, taking the mantle of Clarke’s father with a watery grin and a puffed out chest like there was nothing she would feel more honoured to do in her life. That observation just might be true.

You remember when it had dawned upon Clarke that her dad wouldn’t be there to walk her down the aisle. You remember finding her crying in the bedroom closet because it’s where she used to hide when she was little, where her dad used to find her and hold her until everything magically felt better. She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want you to worry. She didn’t want you to think she wasn’t just as excited to marry you as when she first said yes.

In the end, your only real thought was how much you loved her for being the one crying in the closet and still trying to put your feelings first. Clarke was selfless, and kind, and the personification of everything still good in this world, and you didn’t hesitate to crawl into the closet with her. You never questioned holding her until her sniffles subsided and she placed a soft kiss to your cheek. You would sit in a thousand closets until your pins and needles got pins and needles if it meant Clarke would smile.

She asked Abby to fill in the next day. There had been more crying then. Not you. You were definitely too badass for that. Except that’s a lie because Clarke is three steps away and you feel warm tears running down your cheeks, you can taste the salt in your mouth, you can audibly hear people gasping because Lexa Woods was crying at a pretty girl (if only they knew this wasn’t the first time).

Clarke is two steps away and your throat feels thick.

Clarke is a step away, hugging her mom, and you know what comes next.

“Hi,” Clarke mumbles softly, taking your trembling hand the moment she’s at your side.

“Hi,” you chuckle because it’s so stupid. There are so many things you want to say to Clarke in that moment. You want to tell her that she’s beautiful, you want to tell her that this is the best day of your life thus far, you want to tell her that you love her, you want to tell her that last night you had a dream that the two of you were donuts, you want to tell her that the bed felt empty without her, and yet you say hi, and somehow you still feel like your heart is going to explode.

You pretty much just focus on the warmth of Clarke’s hand and attempting not to freak out until you’re being addressed, until it’s your turn to say your vows and freaking out is the very first thing you do. Clarke squeezes your hand when you swallow harshly, mouths that she loves you when you shift nervously, smiles like you’re the only one in the room when you take a deep breath.

“Clarke, we met because I’m an idiot, and honestly I’ve never been prouder to state that fact. We met because I was too busy thinking that you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on to remember that I was walking. But then it was more than that. I kept being an idiot after that because I discovered that you were kind, and funny, and have the uncanny ability to make any regular situation incredibly awkward because you love innuendos, and I loved you for all of it. I _love_ you for all of it. So, with this ring, I promise to be faithful to you, to protect you, to love you until my dying breath.”

You slip the ring onto her finger.

You grin at the sight.

Clarke grins at you the whole time.

“Lexa, I never really told you this, but I noticed you way before you very obviously noticed me. I remember watching you stare at one of my favourite paintings, and I suddenly hated every piece of artwork in that room because none of it came close to you. None of it could rival the way you looked in your dishevelled work clothes, attempting to explain to Aden that art was subjective, that he didn’t have to understand what it meant as long as it made him feel something. I felt something that day. I still feel that very thing now and I can honestly say I think I’ll feel the same very thing until my last day on this earth. Which is why, I give this ring to you as a sign of my love, as a promise to always honour you, and to love you until _my_ dying breath.”

You feel cold metal slide against your skin. You don’t hear the next words. You don’t need to. You’re already kissing Clarke by the time she’s finished speaking. You kiss her to a chorus of cheers and the accompanying thud of your heart. You kiss her until you’re both smiling too much to continue. You kiss her until she’s running her thumb across your cheek to catch a tear and laughing about conquering the great Lexa Woods and her ice cold heart. You kiss her until you realise you’ve got all the time in the world to show Clarke Griffin just how much you love her.

* * *

 

“It’s positive.” Clarke appeared out of thin air. One second you were peacefully watching a documentary on weird and exotic sea life, and by peacefully you mean you were excitedly talking at the screen and rating them all out of ten based on an incredibly scientific scale (also known as cuteness factor). Then the next second Clarke was running around the living room, waving a stick in your face, and then doing an incredibly odd dance.

To say you were confused would be an understatement.

“What’s positive?” You asked at the risk of looking stupid. Clarke stopped. She grinned maniacally as she dropped beside you on the couch, wordlessly handing you the stick she had seemingly previously been using as some kind of baton for her intense workout routine. You stare blankly for a moment because you know what it is. You’re acutely aware of exactly what it is. But you didn’t expect this. You never expected it this fast, or to be this easy. You were prepared to struggle for months to get it to work and yet...

“The pregnancy test. I took a pregnancy test and it’s positive,” Clarke rambled after you took too long to speak. Truthfully, it was a surprise that she held off for so long.

“We’re having a baby?” You asked, because you needed to be sure. You needed to hear her say the words out loud to make sure that this wasn’t some elaborate daydream you had conjured up, or some kind of TV induced coma that you had put yourself into.

“We’re having a baby,” Clarke confirmed and you finally understood the dancing. You wanted to dance. You wanted to jump around the apartment until you couldn’t feel your feet or crashed through the floor into the moody old ladies apartment downstairs. You wanted to tell her that she might want to move out because you were going to let your beautiful baby scream just to spite her and her broom. You wanted to run down the streets screaming in people’s faces and informing strangers that you were having a baby. You were having a baby with the love of your life. _An honest to God baby._

That was nine months ago.

Nine months that you had spent doting on Clarke hand and foot, which ultimately meant that you were the weirdo in the store at four in the morning buying pickles and peanut butter because that’s what Clarke was craving.

Nine months that you spent having meltdown after meltdown about the baby - was Clarke eating right? Was it developing correctly? Had you properly baby proofed the apartment? Were you going to have to buy an actual house? Could it really hear you already and if so, did it hear the ridiculous amount of swear words you let loose that time you stubbed your toe?

Nine months that you spent carefully traversing the rollercoaster that was Clarke’s emotions. It was three months in when it wasn’t entirely common knowledge that Clarke was pregnant that she tried to get in a fight. No. Rephrase. It was three months in that someone made a joke about Clarke getting a little chubby and she legitimately tried to slap them. You had caught her hand thankfully, and tried to play it off as a joke between friends, burying the awkwardness under the announcement that it wasn’t fat, but in fact an actual human being that Clarke was kindly growing (the bitch at the end of that sentence went unsaid).

The emotions were at their worst when you told Abby. She cried when you told her because apparently that was becoming a thing at big life events, though she hadn’t seemed to appreciate the menopause joke Clarke threw her way alongside the offer of tissues. Clarke had cried a couple of hours later as she sat in your lap at her father’s grave, announcing to him that he would’ve been a grandfather. You had vowed in that moment that if the baby was a boy you’d call him Jake. You didn’t tell Clarke that though because the pregnancy hormones were making her cry enough as it was.

But that was then. This was now. Now being Clarke going into labour and you going into full blown panic mode because you had made plans. You had made backup plans for your plans and then some backup plans for those backup plans just to be extra safe. You were prepared. Technically. You had managed to get there in the car, and sign Clarke in, and have some time to just pace back and forth for a moment. You had done what you were supposed to do. Only now that you didn’t have any immediate plan of action, you were left to think, and having time to think in situations like these was never good.

It was, in fact, always bad.

You couldn’t stop thinking about how Clarke was literally pushing your baby out of her body. Clarke was going through all that pain and you had just read some terrible article about pregnancies going wrong. Your wife is having a baby and so many things could go wrong. You really need them to not go wrong. You also really need your hands just for general usage in life and you were almost sure Clarke was going to pull one off. Although, if the whole thing was as painful as you’d heard, you suppose you could learn to live with the one.

It’s odd when everything goes quiet. It’s not silent. You don’t suppose a hospital can every truly be silent. But suddenly everything is muffled and you’re half sure it’s because you’ve frozen still. Clarke had stopped shouting, and swearing, and groaning. People stopped moving for a moment. Everything was bordering on silence in the room, the only true sounds were those coming muffled from outside the door, and then there was a cry.

A cry.

Your baby's cry.

“It’s a boy.”

_Your son’s cry._

“Jake,” you whisper when they hand him to Clarke. You don’t mean to say it. Letting the word slip out is by no means a conscious choice but looking down at him, snuggled in Clarke’s arms, so small and untainted by the world, you can’t see him being called anything else. You barely register you’ve said it until Clarke turns to you with tears in her eyes, and a timid smile on her lips, like she’d had the exact same thought, like she too had been hoping for a chance to carry on the legacy of a great man.

“I love you,” Clarke says simply, squeezing your hand gently in a manner you much prefer to the death grip she was going with only moments before.

“I love you too.” You press a soft kiss to her forehead, mimicking the movement on the tiny body cradled in her arms. Clarke smiles wistfully as she gestures for you to take him. You had never really put much thought into having kids until you met Clarke.

In reality, you had put off the thought for most of your life until Clarke asked you once how you’d feel about it and you realised that you couldn’t think of anything you would like more in this world than kids with Clarke. Little rascals running around in your garden, learning to play soccer like you always loved or having Clarke show them how to draw, to paint, to watch their dreams come to life on a page.

And now you were holding your son, _your Jake_ , and you felt complete.

“You have visitors. Not all at once!” You expect your mom. You expect Clarke’s mom. That is not what you get. What you get is Anya stumbling into the room like she’s legitimately fought her way in first (you knew she was more invested than she was letting on). You laugh when she immediately pauses mid step as she catches sight of Jake cradled in your arms. You won’t deny the swell of pride that runs through your body when she legitimately coos at the sight.

It’s indisputable that he’s cute.

He’s the cutest.

All other babies were nothing next to him.

“Are you crying, Anya?” Clarke questions with a laugh and you open your mouth to immediately contest the idea before you actually look up and see her face. The face that remains as stoic as usual, other than the clenched jaw and the definite shine in her eyes.

“What, no,” Anya scoffs.

“You’re totally crying,” you can’t help but call out because this is amazing. Anya is crying. Your sister is actually crying. You don’t think you had seen actual tears form in Anya’s eyes since she broke her arm when she was six. Sure, you had heard sniffles since then, and you’d seen the evidence of tears on her face after a few bad moments in high school that you both agreed to never talk about again, but actual visible tears...

“You are too.”

“He’s my son,” you argue.

“He’s my nephew,” she throws back.

“Touché. No one has to know?” You almost stupidly reach out your hand before you realise you’re legitimately holding a baby. A real life baby. _You can’t be your usual idiotic, clumsy self whilst holding your baby._ Thankfully Anya seems to catch on to your predicament and instead offers a sound nod.

“Deal.” Anya pushes forward after that, gently running her thumb along Jake’s head in what you think is awe. You’ve never seen her so soft. You’ve never felt so soft yourself.

“God you two are weird. You’re allowed to cry at a baby.” Anya rolls her eyes surreptitiously at you when Clarke huffs from the bed. You somehow stifle the laugh that threatens to tumble from your mouth before you get yourself in any kind of bad books. Less fortunately Clarke speaks loud enough that when Raven comes stumbling through the doorway with a balloon and a giant teddy bear, she’s already prepared her insults.

“Who’s crying at a baby? Oh, you two are such nerds. I can’t bel-“ Raven pauses, dropping everything in her hands without question and making her way to your side. “ _Oh my gosh_ , that little cutie is my godson.” You would call her a hypocrite when she starts crying the next minute but who can blame her.

Your son is cute.

(He’s so fucking cute).

* * *

 

“Babe, calm down. He’s going to be fine.” It’s Jake’s first day of preschool. You’re actually not completely sure that he’ll be fine. You’re actually maybe very on edge about the whole thing, but he’s inside now, and you’re back in the car, and there’s nothing you can do. Well, you could run back in, pick him up and carry him out but you don’t want him to be the loser with the emotional moms.

Alternatively, you could call in a bomb scare, make them evacuate. You could also conversely suck it up and not act like some crazy psycho parent, preferably whilst calming Clarke down because she honestly does look to be on the verge of doing something ridiculous – like dropping in from the ceiling and stealing him like a priceless gem in one of those heist movies.

“You’re not considering all the variables, Lexa.” _Oh you have_. You had run through a thousand scenarios the night before. Ridiculous, ridiculous scenarios that you decided you had better plan for just in case but, in the end, the actual worst thing you think could happen is he doesn’t immediately make a friend, but that could be easily rectified. Or he sees a pretty girl and falls over, but that one seemed to work out spectacularly for you, especially considering it kick-started the events that led to his existence in the first place, so you’re not all too worried about that one either.

“I did not foresee you being the one to freak out today.” She had seemed so calm. You might even go as far as to say that she seemed excited about Jake going out into the wide world. And now you were wondering if you were going to have to forcibly detain her.

“That means you've been thinking about freaking out.” Clarke points out and she’s not wrong. But these people were trained professionals, and you were willing to kick the ass of any parent who had an asshole kid so it would all be fine in the end (for Jake, at least, you would probably get in some trouble for clotheslining a soccer mom).

“Of course I’ve thought about it, but he’s a good kid and you got him those awesome crayons which will definitely buy brownie points with the others.” You reach across the console and slip your hand into hers, effectively stopping her from wringing her hands nervously anymore.

Clarke relaxes instantly just like she always does, and like always you wonder if this is your super power - making Clarke calm. You’re not complaining. It had served you more times than you could count. For example: the moment it dawned on Clarke that you were legitimately going to have a child, the first time you left Jake with a babysitter, last week when you ran out of Fruit Loops and Clarke couldn’t have any before work.

(Oddly enough the last one had the biggest fallout).

“You’re right.”

“So you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, leaning over to peck your lips slowly. You fall into it like you always do, like you know you always will. “We’re still gonna sit in the car park worrying until he’s done though, right?”

“I already booked the day off.” You had seen this coming. Mostly because you had thought it would be you panicking and you wanted to be prepared. Also because Clarke had barely slept a wink last night and she was always more paranoid and agitated when she hadn’t slept. Add the fact that she had not so secretly called in sick that morning, and that you were entirely sure you would either be spending the day in the car park or in a conveniently situated bush, you had quickly found yourself calling in sick too. In the end you’re just thankful you get to enjoy the comforts of the car, including the snacks you start to pull out from your bag in the backseat.

“This is why I married you,” Clarke all but moans as she cracks open a bag of Cheetos with a content smile. She was such a child. You fell in love with, and married, a woman who was essentially a giant child and it was truthfully the best thing you’d ever done.

“I thought it was because no one else supported your _talk to me about squids_ kink?”

“That was definitely second on the list,” she states casually.

“There’s a list?”

“Oh yeah, number three is that thing you do with-“

“I’m stopping you right there because you’re playing with fire, and I refuse to get Jake kicked out of the best pre-school in the district because we got caught having sex outside it.” That would be bad. Clarke looks at you with devilish eyes and a smirk. That would be bad. Clarke drops her hand onto your thigh, too high up to be entirely innocent. _That would be bad_. You smack her hand away with a weak glare and she pouts grandly.

“Later though?” You give her a look like you can’t even believe she just asked you that question because you cannot believe she actually just asked you that question. Of course you were having sex later. This was a stressful day. It was only the healthy thing to do mentally and also physically because she had left you wanting in the shower that morning and you were wound tighter than a two dollar watch.

“I already booked the babysitters, also known as, Anya and Raven who offered to do it for free.” Raven had winked when she offered, and you almost turned it down on principle, but then you realised that there were far more delightful things than principle, namely Clarke, and that breathless whimper she does when you pull out reason number three for marrying you.

“Number four,” Clarke sings and you can’t help the laughter that bubbles from chest. Ultimately you do absolutely nothing to contain it and you know from an outside point of view you must look ridiculous – laughing infectiously with a snort thrown in every now and again as Clarke watches on amusedly, happily snacking on whatever else she can find in the car.

Sometimes you can’t believe you married such a dork, and then a snort ripples from your throat and you’re reminded that she quite happily married a dork too.

(Proposing was the best decision you ever made).

* * *

 

It’s your anniversary.

It’s your legitimate wedding anniversary and instead of being out to dinner with Clarke, you’re stuck at work, piled under a load of paperwork and files that are so stupid in the scheme of things. You feel like an asshole. You texted Clarke to say that you’re an asshole and she left you on read which you think only further cements the fact that you’re an asshole.

All you wanted to be doing was telling Clarke how beautiful she was, and holding her in your arms, and kissing her. But you’re here and you’re tired. _So tired_. You feel like your head is going to explode, and honestly, if it doesn’t, you’re halfway willing to just bash it repeatedly against the desk until you get some kind of release. Right now you’re just rushing. Scrambling and fumbling through the work that got piled on your desk at the last moment because everyone you work with is incompetent.

You hate them.

In this moment you hate everyone you’ve ever laid eyes on in this building.

Especially the person who is incessantly knocking on your door with abandon. The person who is apparently just going to open your door even though you haven’t actually said come in. The person who apparently skipped the lessons in manners that their parents should have given them. The person who-

“Clarke?” The glare on your face immediately shifts to a grin. Clarke is here. Clarke is in your office. Clarke is in your office holding flowers and a pizza box and wearing a nervous smile like she actually thinks you might turn her away. You can feel every inch of your body melt at the sight, the action so grand that even Clarke can visibly see you slip out of work mode with one deep exhale.

You’re up and crossing the room to kiss Clarke in an instant. Kissing Clarke makes everything alright. Kissing Clarke makes all your annoyances slip away. Kissing Clarke makes your body feel warm and your hands feel steady. Kissing Clarke makes you feel at home.

You hear the flowers drop to the floor alongside the pizza box as Clarke’s arms slip tightly round your waist, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care because Clarke is here, and she’s warm, and she’s not angry, and that’s everything to you.

“You’re here.”

“It’s our anniversary, and if that means I have to come here to watch you huff at paperwork then so be it. I just want to be with you.” Now that’s something you’ll never get tired of hearing.

“God, I love you.”

“You’ll love me even more when you realise the pizza has olives,” Clarke says, picking the box up from the floor and opening it dramatically. You audibly gasp at the sight and revel in the way Clarke laughs at the sound - in the end, you did it for that exact reaction.

“You hate olives.” That was an understatement. You believe Clarke’s actual opinion on olives is that they were created by the devil as one final fuck you to humanity. Personally you thought they were delicious. They also reminded you of the first few months of your relationship when Clarke was adamantly trying to hide her hatred for olives like it would make you love her any less – said hiding mostly resulted in her secretly gagging whilst eating them or hiding them in your couch cushions (honestly you’re not sure why she thought those were better options than just telling you).

“Yes, but I _love_ you, so sit your cute little ass down, do your work, and fill up because boy do I have some plans for you when we get home. Or just on your desk. Either works for me.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” you mumble, because now you’re going to have to take a ten minute break to just think about Clarke on the desk, and then convince yourself that it would be a terrible idea and that therefore you should not do it, all the while knowing you so desperately want to do it. Clarke just laughs. The same laugh that she saves to use in instances like these, instances when she knows she’s made your brain go haywire with just one comment, one perfectly timed wink or smirk.

Thankfully you fall back into work after a little while, munching on pizza as you silently attempt to get the two of you out of this hellhole before midnight. It takes you a while to realise that Clarke is drawing you. The novelty had worn off after the fifth time. The feeling of Clarke watching you intently seemed natural after the seventh. You started unconsciously holding poses after the tenth. But, somehow, even with the knowledge that Clarke has entire sketchbooks dedicated to just your hands, it still manages to make you feel special.

(It also makes you feel a little odd knowing some random man has a giant painting of your naked back in his house that Clarke once did).

So you don’t flinch as she draws. You do make your movements more subdued in an attempt to be in a semi constant pose. You may also slip the smile you reserve just for Clarke onto your face because you know that means she’ll keep the drawing for herself, and you’d really rather not have ‘ _I’ve been at work all day and spilled pizza sauce down my_ _shirt_ ’ you immortalised on someone’s wall.

It’s peaceful.

It’s everything.

And when you finally get home and all Clarke does is cuddle up to you sleepily in bed you almost want to laugh. You don’t. Not because you’re tired or because you’re half sure Clarke has already fallen asleep, but because you can’t think of anything you’d want more than this.

Clarke resting happily in your arms.

There’s nothing more perfect than that.

(Other than maybe waking up and finding Jake in them too).


End file.
